


Torch

by fightfortherightsofhouseelves, gryffindormischief



Series: It's Blissful Oblivion [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, HBP, Hinny, Missing Moments, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-02
Updated: 2020-08-12
Packaged: 2020-10-05 21:22:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 47,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20495528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fightfortherightsofhouseelves/pseuds/fightfortherightsofhouseelves, https://archiveofourown.org/users/gryffindormischief/pseuds/gryffindormischief
Summary: Over the course of his life, Harry's faced death quite a few times, and none of it has been quite as terrifying as falling for Ginny Weasley.





	1. September

**Author's Note:**

> So here we are again, co-writing canon sixth year Hinny and taking it a notch further - from Kindle to Torch *wink*
> 
> Love,  
gryffindormischief &  
fightfortherightsofhouseelves

The train sways and shakes its way to Scotland, following the same old tracks it’s done year after year for entire centuries, and Harry’s steps are uneven and a little bit uncertain as they lead him to Ginny. He can see her at the other end of the corridor, poised yet relaxed, leaning on a nearby compartment’s door as she laughs easily with some friends. It’s a strange feeling, new even, that his heart skips faster and his breath slightly catches when she grins and laughs, runs a hand through her wild mane of hair. 

Still, Harry dismisses the feeling, sauntering closer to her and taps her on the shoulder.

"Fancy finding a compartment?"

Her brown eyes widen for the briefest of moments, harboring something Harry can’t quite put his finger on.

"I can't, Harry, I said I'd meet Dean," says Ginny brightly. "See you later."

A twinge of annoyance or maybe a pang of something more hits Harry as he watches her walk away from him, most probably off to meet Dean. 

Dean, hm. What an odd turn of events, him and Ginny. Not that Harry has anything against him in particular, it’s just unusual, that’s what it is. 

He’s left to do whatever else one can do while stuck on a what feels like a never ending ride to Scotland until he receives the oddest invitation: the Slug Club. Perplexed, Harry feels that nothing can sink his boats further down - no Ron and Hermione to spend his time with, no Ginny, no desire to do anything in particular - so he shrugs and says to himself yeah, alright, what can be worse? 

Only to walk right into a compartment full of...Ginny? A very dumbfounded and bemused Ginny, crammed into a tiny bit of space between Horace Slughorn and the wall. 

She shrugs at the same time as Harry does and they’d both share a laugh if not for the diverse and unusual company. Hermione, Neville, some arrogant looking prick, and Blaise Zabini from Slytherin all bundled into the same two meters is not a sight Harry sees every day. 

And speaking of sight, Zabini seems to be in top form since his eyes have been scanning Ginny head to toe on repeat ever since Harry stepped through the compartment door. Or maybe even longer. His dirty little eyes staring at her, pausing at the small bit of exposed freckled chest, lingering on her hair, her face, her lips. Harry could just -

Could just what exactly? Defend her? Foul as he is, Zabini didn’t as much as touch one flaming red hair on her head, but - 

But still she’s Ron’s little sister! Harry owes him so much as kicking any arsehole’s stinky butt if they dare...Dare _ what _ Harry does not know and he shakes himself back to the present before he can find out. Slughorn’s been asking him something or rather talking at him and he’s starting to draw unwanted attention. As usual. He almost longs for the days of Snape’s tenure as Potions Master. 

Ginny’s cheeky and confident as she speaks and so very far from the nervous girl he met five years ago, and yet there’s something that remains the same. She’s always had that undercurrent of Gryffindor bravery that lead to anything from telling off Malfoy in Diagon Alley to following him almost blindly into the Department of Mysteries to battle Death Eaters.

Before he can fall down _ that _rabbit hole, whatever it is, the odd little gathering’s over and Ginny joins him in the hall.

“How come you ended up in there, Ginny?”

Her eyes light with enough mischief that Harry finds himself pitying Molly Weasley - it seems the Weasley troublemaking gene did not wane with the youngest children. Hell, between Ron and Ginny, Harry almost understands the need for a child mapping clock.

Apparently, at least according to Ginny’s explanation, Zacharias Smith was being a bit of a prat - as he’s wont to do - and was faced with the business end of Ginny’s wand. Complete with the best the young Weasley’s bat boogies had to offer. And instead of detention, Slughorn decided her prowess would be a boon to his little collection of students. Harry’s had enough detention in his career as a Hogwarts student to know a little patience testing hobnobbing was likely an ideal trade.

Not a bad move, Professor Slughorn. Not a bad move at all.

Zabini brushes by, still obnoxiously overt in his _ appreciation _ , and Harry can’t help but grumble. “Better reason for inviting someone than because their mother's famous. _ ” _

“He’s such a prat,” Ginny grins, leans towards the great big windows of the Express, and Harry finds himself vigorously nodding in agreement. 

“Can’t believe I’ll only live this twice more,” she sighs after awhile, her gaze still lost somewhere in the crude greens of Scotland.

Harry’d been too entranced, the flaming red of her hair contrasting with the browns, greens and mountainous greys outside, the deep yellow hue of the setting sun in her eyes - and perhaps it’s visible on his face because she smiles and goes on to explain, “The trip to Hogwarts. With the Hogwarts Express.”

And as Harry realises that she’s right it also hits him hard and strong that maybe, for him, this might be the last ride to Hogwarts, the final trip home. It hits him like a kick in the gut, so intense and impossible to carry that he’s certain he’s tasting bile on his tongue.

Again Ginny cottons on, rapidly diving in to change the subject. 

“So we’ve established that Zabini’s a prick, but what about that McLaggen bloke?” 

She grins and all thoughts of leaving Hogwarts get erased from Harry’s mind as they abuse McLaggen for a good ten minutes, seasoned with Ginny’s top notch impersonations and sprinkled with a bonus one of Snape too. 

Once Ginny leaves again, Harry decides he needs a bit of a distraction, and if he can pull one over on Blaise in the process, it’ll be all the better. So he slips beneath the silken invisibility cloak and manages to sneak his way into Malfoy’s compartment. 

Ron and Hermione might not believe it yet, but he’s certain Malfoy’s up to something out of his usual sleaziness. And Harry’s instincts never betrayed him, except...Except nothing, not now, at least. There’ll be time to let it eat at his insides later. Now Harry’s on a mission and plans on following through.

Things go well enough, Harry might have let his feet slip out from the invisibility cloak, but the little junior Death Eater meeting progresses. Even if being a member of the Slug Club wasn’t on Harry’s to do list, the fact that Draco seems so carefully _ not _irritated about his own lack of invitation that the whole scenario’s actually shaping up to be pretty nice.

That is, until Draco lingers in the compartment once all his cronies have left, body binds Harry and breaks his nose for good measure. Sadly, Harry's got nothing to do for awhile except vacillate between trying to decide whether he can bleed out from a broken nose and wondering just how long it’ll be before someone either stumbles over him or realizes he’s missing.

Ron and Hermione are probably doing their ‘we fight to ease the tension’ pre-feast chatter and _ Ginny’s _probably off with Dean doing - doing something Harry doesn’t want to think someone who’s practically his sister is doing. 

He’s resigned himself to ending up back in London and probably digesting his own stomach for hunger when a certain Metamorphmagus-Auror turns up in the empty compartment and manages to stumble over his prone form. It seems her tendency to trip over anything and everything does serve a certain investigative purpose, Harry muses with a grin that only aggravates his broken nose.

Somehow, he makes it to the welcome feast and stumbles his way through some vagaries, and disappointingly finds his theories and findings brushed aside. Some mates, huh. 

* * *

The first week of his sixth year is a blur of new and old classes (and ones he’d hoped would never visit again, but unfortunately McGonagall had other plans), hating Snape with a newfound ardour, avoiding being jinxed in class by said slimy bastard, delivering one of his sickest burns yet (to be honest, he is rather proud of his quick thinking of “No need to call me _ sir _, Professor”. Yes, rather proud indeed) and somehow becoming the wonder child of Potions? Granted, Harry never thought he’d go through any of those, but him and Potions?

If he’s being honest, his only merit resides in following some scribbled notes on the battered copy of his Potions textbook, the one that Ron refused and latched onto the sparkling new one instead. But following rules or indications was never as fun for Harry as it was during this first class with Professor Slughorn: he got to see Hermione nearly combust in frustration, won points for his House (a change he’d happily get accustomed to), and also won a nifty little something for his troubles. Felix Felicis. Liquid luck. 

And to top off an odd start to school, Harry finds himself alone in the Common Room, engrossed with the Potions textbook - apparently what used to be the property of someone who quite dramatically styled himself The Half Blood Prince. Harry himself appreciates a pinch of drama, but…

But it’s already past midnight, he’s tired and yawning and about to get up and go to bed, when a familiar voice caresses at his eardrums.

“Ron told me that Snape tried to jinx you, that absolute tosser, that slimy foul - argh!” 

Harry’s insides feel warm and nice as Ginny stomps her way in, plops into the other armchair, curses blasting from her lips. Harry grins imagining Molly Weasley’s reaction to this travesty of manners displayed by her only daughter, but he’d be a little liar if he said he wasn’t enjoying watching it play out.

“But Ron also told me how you burned him,” Ginny grins once she’s done fuming. “Bloody brilliant, Harry! I swear, if anyone’s keeping score, between that, your “Sorry, Professor, but I must not tell lies” thrown at Umbridge last year and “Yeah, you can have a word - goodbye” you slapped at Rita Skeeter the year before, I truly don’t know which is my favorite.”

Harry smirks as she laughs, palms slapping her knees in mirth and somehow that makes him feel really happy with himself. Yeah, pretty chuffed indeed.

“So Hermione’s a bit vexed, huh?” She grins and nudges him with her elbow once she cools off and they both wind up discussing their mutual hate for the former Potions Master.

Harry snorts, “What did she say?”

“Oh, only that you cheated your way into winning.”

He can see the mischief glowing in her eyes and fully knows that Ginny won’t lecture him if he tells her about the Prince. Harry grins widely.

“Nah, I’d say it was Snape who was the shite teacher.”

Ginny giggles, leans forward, their foreheads close like there’s a conspiracy about to be planned between them. Harry’s breathing hardens for a minute, gaze falling on her lips, on a small freckle plastered atop her upper one, all alone and a little taunting.

What if he told her about Felix? And that he’s thought about using it? No, certainly he can’t open that door without - without what? It’s all confusing, his thoughts, his feelings, the fact that she’s so close, and Ron’s little sister, it’s -

“What if you happened to pour a dash of your handy little prize into my brother’s and Hermione’s morning pumpkin juice, eh?” She flashes him a devilish grin, eyelashes fluttering.

“Ginny, what?” He laughs.

“Look, I’m not saying you do it on purpose. I’m just saying that maybe your hand slips a little one morning.”

“You don’t trust them to figure it out on their own, do you?”

“I’m afraid all hope has been lost over the summer,” Ginny pouts as she pretends to mourn said loss of hope.

They share an easy laugh, cosy by the fireplace, and Ginny’s freckled palm comes to rest on Harry’s shoulder. Easy, comfortable, warm.

“I might have to follow your advice, though. Reckon I can’t take another year of their hogwash,” Harry sighs dramatically, ruffles his hair.

Ginny’s eyes follow his hands as they travel through his dark hair, leaving it messier than before. She draws in a breath.

“How ‘bout you actually use it for yourself?” Her small teeth sink into her bottom lip as the question raises from her lips and Harry doesn’t know or rather can’t fully decide if there’s something she’s implying.

“I - er, I’ll think about it,” he rolls the words out as his mouth goes dry, a flush stretching from his cheeks to the back of his neck and he feels quite hot. Probably from the hearth, he reasons and shifts in his armchair.

Oddly enough, the sensation lingers even after Ginny’s disappeared up the stairs to her dorm and he’s quickly shuffled his feet towards his own bed, dropped into it and kept on staring at the ceiling for a long time, confused and slightly bothered.

* * *

After Dumbledore’s odd note and their subsequent ‘lesson’ Harry’s life doesn’t seem to take the hint and become less stressful. Between the likely helpful but as yet uncontextualized information regarding Voldemort’s history, and the standard demands placed on a sixteen-year-old wizard, most days it feels like a chore to roll from his bed. Let alone be a model student. Perhaps he’s lucky to have avoided appointment as a prefect after all.

In a rare free moment, one Hermione would say was better used as a study period, Harry finds himself lounging on the soft grass near the Great Lake while the Giant Squid swims about lazily. The sun overhead warms him bone-deep and the light breeze kicks up his messy curls. It’s gloriously, wonderfully restful, and when Ron and Ginny turn up - well it feels like a stolen bit of time.

Ron arrives first, dropping like a boneless blob of - something onto the grass next to Harry. “Hell if Sixth Year isn’t the worst yet. Also sorry for being a bit of a ponce about making Prefect. If it’s any consolation the whole set up is shite.”

Laughing quietly, Harry tosses his balled up bit of parchment higher overhead and catches it, eyes squinted against the ever-reaching rays of the sun - much like someone else two decades earlier. “Do tell.”

“Apparently it’s ‘unethical’ to go around taking points from Slytherins ‘willy nilly’ - well then what should I be doing?” Ron rants, “‘Sides, it’s not ‘willy nilly.’ I’m just evening things back out after Draco and Snape have their way firebombing any other house’s chances at winning the house cup.”

Before Harry answers, a light flowery scent drifts into their airspace and Ginny tosses her bag aside and makes herself at home, using Harry’s stomach as a pillow. He doesn’t realize she’s missed whatever turn the conversation’s taken - distracted as he is with the weight of her head, the dramatic gestures of her hands - until she tilts her face and addresses him directly, “Don’t you think?”

“I - .” _ Wow, her eyes are beautiful _. “Er - say that again?”

Ginny reaches over and flicks his nose. “I was _ saying _ that we don’t need Ron’s suspect tactics to win - we’ve got the best Quidditch team in the school this year. I’ll wager we have Malfoy crying into his oatmeal by Christmas.”

And for whatever strange, odd, indiscernible reason, Harry finds himself patting Ginny on the head and wishing he could run his fingers through her hair. Maybe it’s to complete the whole ‘cat curled up in his lap’ set up they have going. 

Regardless, he does manage to realise first, Ginny would think he’d fallen off his rocker, second, Ron would likely slap him silly, and third, Dean would definitely put itching powder - or worse - in Harry’s bed if he found out.

Honestly - and Harry finds he’s really only fully honest in the privacy of his own mind these days - he’s most concerned with somehow injuring Ginny’s opinion of him than anything else. Ron’s anger is certainly not something he’d like to invite on himself, but they’ve come back from some pretty heavy stuff and Ron’s just a bit of a drama king at times. And well, Dean can like it or lump it. 

All this flashes through Harry’s mind, it’s kind of a constant background mantra since the start of summer in the handful of a few seconds, and the moment to affectionately stroke Ginny’s hair has passed. Likely for the best, despite Harry’s increasing conflict on the subject of the youngest and most confounding Weasley.

They chat easily about potential strategy for the team, training regimens Ginny read about in Quidditch Weekly, and a few new defensive maneuvers Ron can start working on and Harry begins to think Ginny would make a better captain than he ever will. She’s bloody brilliant, she is.

With breakfast the following morning comes Ron and Hermione’s usual self-deluded banter - one day he might lose it and lock them in a broom closet - and the usual delicious spread of food. The good thing about the unbelievable frequency of his mates’ flirting turned arguments is Harry’s become rather adept at tuning out to the extent that his blood pressure doesn’t skyrocket when Ron goes full grouch and Hermione’s reached her high-pitched potential. 

Though sometimes he wonders whether they might end up snogging with equal ferocity and he’ll just be in an alternate sort of hell. Luckily, the subject does turn soon enough, and even better to Quidditch. When he’d retrieved the sign up sheet for tryouts that morning, there’d been a few more names on the list than he’d expected - particularly the _ non _Gryffindor candidates. 

Hermione’s theory is basically that Harry’s publicity as ‘not off his rocker’ has somehow catapulted him to teen-heartthrob status over the summer. And she also notes his recent growth spurt, which hasn’t helped with his hand-me-down sizing issues but does seem to be catching some attention around Hogwarts. Though a certain someone seems impervious to his increase in desirability. 

In fact, it seems this summer he’s been determinedly shunted into the role of friend just when he’s starting to realize he doesn’t particularly want to be - since he started noticing that - 

Well, honestly, all he’s really looking for is a few good sassy sparring matches and a solid trouncing on the Quidditch pitch, all rather innocent desires. After all, Ginny Weasley’s teasing and trash talk almost outmatches her abilities on the field - which is saying something. 

They’d had a few matches over the summer and hell if she wasn’t the most gorgeous thing he’d ever seen - which he means in the most confusingly motivated way possible. God, it’s lucky Ron’s so caught up in whatever his current argument with Hermione’s turned to.

As it turns out, Harry’s appetite seems to have waned.

They don’t dally much longer, gathering their things to head for the first classes of the day. As they wander from the Great Hall, Harry can’t help but let his eyes search for Ginny among the throngs of Gryffindors. It shouldn’t take long to spot her - yup. There she is looking glorious and radiant and smiling at - at _ Dean _. Some days just really are destined to be shite and should therefore be erased in their entirety.

Gladly there’s still Quidditch to take his mind off certain older brotherly feelings. Quidditch, where he’s focused, poised, determined. Head in the game with a mission to win the House Cup, come what may. As they say, nothing can stop them now. Harry can only hope that those they are right, for his own sanity and probably also for his pride and ego.

Until a hurricane of red hair dashes close to him and he’s almost knocked off his broom before the tryouts even start. Some Captain he is. If Wood or even Angelina were there to see him, he’d never hear the end of it. 

However, neither of them is and it’s all on Harry to put together a decent team and sweep the floor with Slytherin again this year. 

Still, Harry feels confident enough choosing Demelza Robins to join the team, an excellent new find to fill the empty chaser slot. He’s semi-happy with Coote and Peakes as Gryffindor’s new Beaters - but alas, it is rather hard to meet the standard set by Fred and George, that much Harry can admit. And of course there’s also Katie, Ron, and Ginny going forward with the team for another year.

Ginny, who’d make Captain for sure next year. To Harry, it’s a fact, even though she might not know it yet. She’s determined, strong, smart, and a natural born flyer. The fools talking about his own innate ability to fly must have never seen her. 

Quite frankly, there’s nothing more Harry’d like right now than to take her on in a race - she did suggest it before tryouts, so why not? Just the two of them, hands gripping at the hard wood of their broom handle, wind slashing at their cheeks, Ginny’s hair flying everywhere like a brilliant pennant, her lips chapped, those lips she bites in concentration, drawing attention to that one freckle -

Alright, so maybe accepting her challenge is not the best idea. Not with Ron next to him, at least. And even more so when said best mate is nearly giving himself a coronary over Keeping, head locked in a contest with that git, McLaggen. The git whom Harry definitely can’t have on the team or he might end up expelled from Hogwarts before the end of the month, so pull it together, Ron!

Turns out he doesn’t even need to do something, anything for Ron to save enough goals to put a nice safe difference between himself and Cormac McLaggen, as the latter seems to have become slightly - erm, confused? While the former only grows in skill and confidence once a certain bushy haired witch smiles at him from the stands.

Harry can practically feel himself vomiting inside his mouth. Is this really how it's going to play out? The two of them dancing around each other all year long? Do they need a drawing or some instructions? Hermione’d love instructions. But Harry knows what she’d love even more: for Ron to finally untwist his pants and snog her for the love of Merlin. And maybe then Ron will be happy enough to not be bothered by Harry kissing Ginny -

Harry kissing Ginny? Now that’s new. Harry’d like to wonder and over-analyze and maybe stress about where this idea came from, but unfortunately tryouts are over and people are looking at him, expecting to hear something. So he channels his best inner Oliver Wood to deliver the most decent pep talk he can squeeze out of his confused and tired brain, then sends everybody to the showers.

Everybody, except Ron, whose big blue eyes are glued to Hermione and her smiling face, and so Harry knows, he can just feel it actually, that this little calm period they're enjoying is literally too good and banter-free to really keep going for more than a hot second.

As if his thoughts summoned the undesirable situation, Slughorn’s invitation - and for Ron, non invitation - to a little ‘get together’ after dinner stirs up yet another argument between Ron and Hermione. It’s to be expected and he can’t be _ too _put off at Slughorn, if it wasn’t a dinner invitation, it would’ve been something else. 

At least Slughorn had the decency to schedule it for a night Harry couldn’t attend. Though it’s hard to determine whether an evening spent with a bunch of schmoozers or locked in a classroom with Snape is more tortuous.

Demelza’s special delivery kind of decides it for him - at least Slughorn’d give him something to eat. As it is, it sounds like Snape’s trying to either permanently destroy Harry’s appetite or his ability to lift a fork. 

Harry lets his mind wander for a minute, and his eyes find Ginny across the common room where she’s letting Arnold run riot up and down her arms and giggling as his fur tickles her skin. Her cheeks are bright with laughter, her eyes sparkling with happiness and - and Harry doesn’t really know what to think. Emotions are hellish, aren’t they?

Instead of moping around (much like someone Harry’d rather not name as of yet), he gets his sorry arse up and ready for a night of unspeakable terrors - or whatever degree of terror Dumbledore allows to be inflicted upon Hogwarts students, all complete with added layers of Professor Snape’s undesirable presence, breathing over Harry’s shoulder. The image is so depressing he reckons he’d even be content with trading his prized broom just to turn into a small pink Pygmy Puff for the next couple of hours.

And in case anyone ever asks, Harry can now confirm that a detention involving Snape and flobberworms is about as awful as one might imagine. His fingers are raw and his shoulders ache like the summer Petunia decided to add paving stones to the garden and Vernon said he needed to ‘build character.’

So by the time he stumbles back through the portrait hole, the Fat Lady’s tipsy blustering about being woken so unceremoniously falls on deaf ears. He feels decidedly _ icky _, the semester’s barely begun and Harry’s already exhausted.

He slumps into the nearest couch and the lumpy seat gives an irritated _ oof _. “He wins one potions contest and suddenly thinks he can sit on whomever he wants - wait until I give this scoop to Rita.”

“Potter Pompous Prick - full story on page 3,” Harry announces, hand sketching the faux headline in the air.

Ginny chuckles, the low burning fire casting a warm glow over her freckled cheeks, and nudges his thigh with her socked toes. “You should go into journalism.”

“I am quite adept at alliteration,” Harry muses, grinning playfully.

“Now you're just showing off.”

“At least I live up to Snape’s hype.”

Grumbling some choice words under her breath, Ginny sits up and inches her way closer, one arm tossed over the back of the couch and her feet now warmed by niggling their way between his leg and the cushion. “How was it? Is he as awful to you in private?”

“Hm. Hard to compare apples and oranges, though the level of arsehole-ishness is probably even.”

“I suppose he gets credit for variety,” Ginny laughs quietly, her head pillowed on her arm.

“So why are you up, then?”

She bites her lip. “Had a sort of date.”

Harry ignores the itchiness in his chest and asks with forced lightness, “How was it?”

“Alright,” Ginny shrugs, “Nothing to write home about - not that I make a habit of telling Mum about who I do and don't kiss.”

His hand clenches involuntarily causing the skin on his knuckles to smart with the stretch. Apparently he winces or does _ something _ because Ginny's immediately on alert. “He hurt you.”

“S’alright,” Harry hedges, “Nothing to worry about.”

“If you go to Pomfrey she’ll have you fixed in a jiffy.”

“Then I’ll just give Snape another reason to hate me.”

“Much better to have him on your arse for a good reason - _ sir.” _

Being called sir by Ginny kicks up a confusing array of emotions he'd rather not unpack so he focuses on the banter with dogged determination. “Still not over my spectacular sass, I see.”

“Half the school is talking about it, if you weren't so popular for being the _ Chosen One _ this would've done it.”

“I prefer this reason,” Harry says, dry.

“Your cheek _ is _ quite attractive,” Ginny adds, rising and patting him on the shoulder, “G’night Harry.”

His face is still flaming when Ginny's footsteps fall silent on the stairwell.

_ Blimey. _  



	2. October

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we worked hard to bring you this chapter on time and succeeded! Hope you enjoy this chapter of HBP missing moments.
> 
> Love,
> 
> fightfortherightsofhouseelves & gryffindormischief

The Prince’s book has become something of a bed companion to Harry by now, perusing it at length again and again in his free time. The tips of his fingers lightly trace each scribbled note for the hundredth time, his lips whisper spells he’s never heard of.

It’s how Ron finds himself dangling up in the air from a freckly ankle and how, not much later, Harry lets himself be dragged into an ardent debate with Hermione on whether Levicorpus is or isn’t a jinx.

“Of course it’s a jinx,” Hermione scowls as the trio trots through the autumn wind to Hogsmeade, “Nothing benign would serve to levitate people and _ expose _ them like that.”

Harry knows she’s vividly reliving that night at the Quidditch World Cup, when Lucius Malfoy and his Death Eater friends had a laugh levitating Muggles in a disgusting demonstration of soft torture. If he’s honest, he’s also thinking about it and it’s vexing enough that he’d simply like to scratch at the back of his head, where those irksome little thoughts like to hide and play, scratch until they bleed away from him.

Yet more dreary musings come to bother him when the three of them happen upon the unlikely duo of Horace Slughorn and Mundungus Fletcher, and the annoying buzz turns into true Harpies’ screeches as Katie Bell is nearly murdered.

Harry doesn’t much remember a day when he felt he needed some peace of mind more than he does now as everything inside him cries and bawls that it _ has to do with Malfoy _. That the Prince is somehow connected to this and not at all evil. That innocent lives are at risk if nobody’ll take him seriously when he says that Draco Malfoy is plotting something sleazy. Because he is and today is nothing but proof.

Unfortunately, nobody does, not even Professor McGonagall. Not like this, not without concrete evidence and Harry knows deep inside that he won’t rest until he finds some. He only hopes it won’t be too late.

* * *

After Hogsmeade, Katie’s continuing stay in the Hospital Wing, and yet another unsuccessful attempt to convince _ anyone _that Malfoy is plotting something, Harry somewhat glumly seeks solace in his studies - per Hermione’s advice. Which, in reality was more a long rant detailing exactly where he would end up should he forgo his schoolwork in favor of ‘cockeyed notions’ about admittedly morally grey classmates. For someone who punched said ‘morally grey’ classmate not three years ago, she can be a bit high and mighty at times.

So far though, burying himself in schoolwork has succeeded in keeping his mind occupied, at least in part. Besides, who knew if the secret to finally catching Malfoy in the act was - his eyes skimmed the page again - a perfectly executed _ Orchideous _incantation? Perhaps the slimy git’s true weakness is hay-fever.

Harry’s considering whether Skeeter is right and he _ has _gone ‘round the bend when Ron’s patience with studying silently seems to waver.

“What is it about girls anyway?” Ron huffs between the pages of his Transfiguration copy, his mind clearly not anywhere near the subject of their homework.

“What are you going on about?” Harry asks bemused. “Hope it’s not McGonagall prompting those shower thoughts,” he grins from behind his own textbook as Ron grimaces and closes the tome with a loud bang.

“I mean everyone’s a girl or talking about girls,” Ron carries on and sighs. “It’s absolutely mad, I’m telling you.”

Harry laughs wholeheartedly, following Ron’s example and putting a well deserved pause on his study. Well, not _ that _ well deserved since they’ve only been studying for about twenty minutes, but it’s late and they had Quidditch practice all day so who can really blame them.

“No, mate, _ you’re _ absolutely mad. Now care to offer some context?”

Ron frowns, draws a breath, then takes a moment as if to ruminate on what he wants to say next.

“That git, Dean, he’s dating my sister,” he winces. 

It’s Harry’s turn to scowl. “Yeah, noticed that much.”

“And Hermione looks - erm, so much like a _ girl _ now, you know? And less like our friend,” Ron elaborates, completely amiss of Harry’s snide remark. Which is all the better for Harry, really. Ron seems to have too much on his emotional plate anyway. 

“You understand what I’m trying to say, right?” Ron hurries to add when Harry doesn’t say anything, his cheeks coloring faintly.

“Hmm,” Harry mumbles the best response he can come up with. It’d be rather awkward to admit that Hermione’s mostly the same to him, their best friend and somewhat sister to Harry. As opposed to other sisters he happens to know.

“It’s odd, ‘s all I’m saying. And my baby sister going on dates, probably snogging blokes -”

“Plural?” Harry blurts out before he realises what he’s doing.

Ron throws him an exasperated look. “Dunno, mate. She keeps everything very private but I don’t understand what’s all this sudden fuss ‘bout her. I mean why’s she so popular? Dean seemed alright, what does he see in her?” He shrugs.

“What does she see in _ him _?” Harry sneers, his lips morphing into a small pout. 

“Dean’s a good bloke, I guess,” Ron shrugs again, scratches the back of his head.

“I guess,” replies Harry, rather reluctant.

“And he’s pretty smart, I guess?”

“I guess.”

“And I reckon he draws really well.”

“He does?”

“That’s what I remember. Girls like paintings and stuff. Mum has lots of them hanging on the walls,” Ron’s face lights up as if it all finally makes sense. 

But not to Harry. Not if he takes into account the way his insides churn and boil or the way he simply feels a sudden need to shout at his best friend and maybe tell him that somebody else ought to bring Hermione a bloody drawing and then see how he likes it.

But right afterwards Harry feels petty, mumbles something about abandoning homework and sets off to bed, leaving a befuddled Ron behind wondering what he could’ve said wrong.

And by some odd twist of fate - or maybe some divine entity’s really prone on showing Harry that the worst is yet to come - the conversation he walks in on is no better than the one he’s rudely ended. In fact, on a scale from one to detention with Snape, what he’s currently witnessing ranks closer to the latter rather than the former.

Dean discussing his blooming relationship with Ginny.

Dean describing to Seamus the progress he’s making with Ginny.

Dean about to be pushed out the Gryffindor Tower window. By mistake, of course. 

Sometimes, Harry muses, there are things he misses about living under the stairs. Well. Not exactly. His bedroom is loads better. But there _ are _benefits to having your own room rather than a dorm full of loud mouthed complaining gits.

The real question is when exactly Dean became so irritating. Harry’s not incapable of tuning out irksome housemates - a certain ickle Diddikins and co. serve as ample evidence - so Dean must really be laying it on thick.

Recently, it seems that if he’s not outlining his ‘_ intensive _’ physical fitness routine, he’s giving Seamus advice on the best way to ask out ‘birds’ and extolling the virtues of a certain shoulder slipping move that gets you ‘up close and personal’ with said bird.

Harry does his best to avoid the dorm when awake but it begins to feel like they’re _ waiting _for him to arrive and saving the most obnoxious bits for his personal enjoyment. 

It’s rather gross, to be honest, and he feels indignant - in a brotherly way obviously - to hear the highly questionable _ strategies _ Dean plans to use to further acquaint himself with Ginny.

Who knew two teenage boys could cluck like gossiping hens this long after lights out? Or talk so loud despite the whisper-like quality of their conversation. Harry sticks his arm out through a split in the curtains and brushes a few Droobles wrappings aside, _ well _past eleven. Plain rude.

With a huff, he shoves the covers back, grabs his dressing gown, blanket, and wand, before storming toward the door. “You two are bloody lucky Ron sleeps like the dead.”

As if confirming, Ron - who’s also given up on studying and fainted rather than fell asleep within less than two seconds since closing the distance between his person and his bed, lets out a loud snore and sighs in his sleep.

Dean and Seamus blink at Harry, the former’s eyes narrowing and mouth opening as if he’s about to toss back some indignant response but Harry’s in no mood. He leaves the dorm with a dramatic swoosh of his blanket and stumbles his way down the staircase, only forgoing a very satisfying door slam in the name of inter-house courtesy. Unlike _ some _people.

The last few steps meet with the unhappy, teen-angst thuds of his feet. All the while, he grumbles to himself in an almost unintelligible but heart-lightening manner so he’s feeling a bit less like dumping a shaker of salt in Dean’s porridge in the morning.

Still, that doesn’t make him any more eager to return to the gossiping hens upstairs and the fire _ does _look rather inviting. Perhaps Dobby anticipated Harry’s midnight flight to the common room.

Or perhaps Harry’s off his rocker and somehow deluded himself into believing this picture perfect, cozy room isn’t quite as abandoned as he first assumed. Instead, a certain red-haired Chaser is tucked up in one of the armchairs closest to the fire, forehead drooping toward the crinkled notes in her lap, socked toes warming in the blaze’s orange glow.

“You’re up late,” Harry tries, testing the responsiveness of his hallucination.

Groaning, Ginny drops her head back on the cushioned chair. “Hermione made me a timetable.”

Harry laughs, claiming the couch closest to Ginny with a dramatic sprawl of his occasionally gangly limbs.

“And presented said timetable to me _ in front of mum _ , who thought it was the greatest idea in the _ history _of ideas.”

Ginny twists her neck and stares at him expectantly, which Harry assumes is an indication she wants a response other than gawking at her helplessly. “So now you’re stuck, eh?”

She hums and scrapes her hair up into a messy bun. “Theoretically tonight’s study session should have been through,” she looks at her watch, “yesterday afternoon.”

The words have barely left her lips before laughter bubbles out of both of them, loud and surprising until they muffle their chuckles. Which, of course, only makes things funnier and the _ stopping _that much harder. Ginny’s cheeks are rosy with happiness as Harry pushes his glasses up messily and swipes the tears from his cheeks. “Don’t tell me you’ve been studying for,” he pauses to do the math, “Twenty seven hours.”

“No - yesterday was so _ lovely _\- that sunshine on my face,” she sighs, “How could I do anything but go for a fly?”

Harry grins, dragging one foot up underneath him, “True enough - I had a good kip over by that tree. You know the one close enough to the water the firsties are too afraid to go near?”

She nods in recognition and tosses one leg over the side of the armchair, looking as if she’ll melt into oblivion right then and there. “Then I met up with Dean before dinner.”

Unable to bite back the grimace at the mention of his sleep stealing dorm-mate - not that he feels much like sleeping at the moment - Harry delivers some sort of non commital grunt that Ginny pounces on like a starved puma. Her dark eyes consider him from head to toe in a way that makes his cheeks heat. “How are things with Dumbledore, then?”

Harry shrugs, fiddling with the knobby blanket on his lap and feeling like a bit of a ponce for worrying about his loud-mouthed roommate when lives hang in the balance. Then he really does scowl as thoughts of Dumbledore, Death Eaters, Draco and his cronies, and about a thousand other dark things swirl through his mind. “No - no he hasn’t called me for another lesson yet.”

Ginny eyes him for another moment, lips twisted in a thoughtful frown before they quirk in a teasing grin. “Well he’d better get on it if you’re going to be the new Headmaster _ and _Supreme Mugwump. Lest we forget your need for a long, luxurious white beard.”

“I would look damn foxy with a beard and you know it.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it - can you even _ grow _facial hair baby Potter?”

Crossing his arms, Harry puffs out his chest in a show of manliness and narrows his eyes. A show which is slightly lessened by the smile that tickles his lips. “I will have you know I shave every morning.”

“With a big boy razor?” Ginny teases, but she nudges him with her toes, “All seriousness, I’m not sure the Hogwarts student body could handle ruggedly handsome Harry James Potter.”

“Mass hysteria, eh?” Harry laughs, though it’s a bit strangled in the wake of Ginny’s half admission that he could be considered handsome. Even in an entirely hypothetical situation. 

Perhaps a beard wouldn’t be such a bad idea.

“Aye - Dad read all about Beatlemania. Like that, but with magic.”

“I’ll need a bodyguard or two.”

“Not to worry - we’ve got you covered,” Ginny assures him as she collects her things and rises tiredly. “I can’t study anymore. My brain’s turned to mush,” she pauses, “You never said why _ you’re _up.”

“Eh - Dean’s a snorer.”

Ginny’s brows rise, “_ Really _.”

And Harry can’t seem to drum up a bit of guilt as he frowns darkly and nods.

* * *

As October progresses, Scotland turns crisp, the air whips at bare cheeks turning them rosy and leaving Harry free to wander the grounds with few interruptions. Between Voldemort’s official return and everything that happened at the Department of Mysteries last year, Harry’s ability to skulk about unnoticed has been lessened somewhat. 

It’s not adoring fans begging for autographs like Krum had during the Triwizard - more like quiet stares on some weird spectrum between mute terror and judgmental mutterings. 

He is slightly more adept at tuning such things out than during the ‘Potter Stinks’ era, but it’s still nice to escape it and reserve the energy used for ignoring annoyances. Mostly he uses those reserves for lots of internal angst about feelings he definitely _ doesn’t _have.

Nothing clears his head like a nice fly though and a quick check of the pitch schedule reveals an open afternoon. So his daily constitutional turns into a quick jog over to the empty pitch to take to the sky. 

Truth be told, he desperately needs a place to simply forget about the current state of events, the feelings of uncertainty, the doubts he’s having as he wonders if the troubles and efforts they put into recreating Riddle’s pre-Voldemort life aren’t wasted. 

His second lesson with Dumbledore, recently ended, didn’t do much to alleviate any of those feelings. Back through the Pensieve, to a twelve year old Tom Riddle this time, with a personality grim enough to signal chaos about to come. Can understanding your enemy truly bring you one step closer to defeating him? Harry closes his eyes, one palm lightly passing over the lightning shaped scar slashed across his forehead. 

Wind chaps his face, makes his eyes teary as he increases his speed and clears the towers that surround the stadium. Clouds drift by overhead, a slow drag against brilliant blue compared to the streaking of his slim broom. 

Clutching the handle tightly with his legs, Harry releases one hand, then the other and twists into a spiral. Once he’s right side up, Harry slows and swirls in lazy circuits until he’s back hovering over the pitch, descending to the sound of a slow clap.

“Nice moves, Potter.”

_ So much for clearing my head _.

“Captain’s got to keep up his skills,” Harry says, easy.

“Didn’t know keeping them up involved so much showing off,” Ginny answers with a smirk, tossing a practice Quaffle high overhead and catching it deftly.

Harry’s feet find the fresh cut grass as he ruffles his hair in a nervous gesture that _ must _be hereditary. “Is it really showing off if nobody’s around?”

“Am I nobody?”

“You weren’t _ expected _.”

She tosses the quaffle again, higher, and catches it without a second glance. “I could just take my Quaffle and go home,” Ginny quirks her brow, “But since this is the Quidditch Pitch and I am looking to actually _ play Quidditch _…”

“Excuse me - are you attempting to argue that flying isn’t a legitimate element of Quidditch?”

“Without balls it’s just a bunch of jocks performing high-flying acrobatics,” Ginny counters, another toss, this time over her shoulder. She catches it with a quick twist that sends her hair fanning behind her.

“And tricks like that aren’t showboating at all,” Harry drawls, “Is this some chaser superiority complex?”

“S’not a complex if it’s true - besides I can play all positions,” Ginny says simply as she drops to the ground, ankles crossed in front of her.

It’s really difficult being around someone so tempting. Since, he has to worry about her all the time, of course. Not because _ he _is tempted in any way, despite what his dreams might indicate.

Blissfully unaware of Harry’s internal monologue, Ginny slides her palms out sideways until she’s fully reclined in the grass. “Speaking of - we are defending Quidditch Cup winners and the fecking Ravenclaw team have their sights set on taking it back.”

“I’m not planning on captaining the team to ruin,” Harry shoots back with a roll of his eyes. 

“Have a seat _ Captain _ \- let’s get strategizing,” Ginny says patting the ground by her side, “Got to protect my interests - Harpies like _ winners _.”

Nudging her ankle with his toe, Harry does as instructed and tosses his broom aside. “That your plan? Go professional?”

Ginny glances up at him. “Oh yeah - though I don’t think I’ve said it to anyone aloud before.”

“That sounds brilliant - you’re uh,” Harry ruffles his hair, “You’re really brilliant.”

She kicks his shoulder. “Thanks.”

It’s quiet between them for a moment until she finally adds, “And as brilliant as it is to be successful as both a Chaser _ and _a Seeker, maybe strategy number one could be you not getting kicked off the team again this year?”

“Pinky promise.”

“Secondarily - we really need a replacement for Katie,” Ginny says, “Not that - well Quidditch isn’t the biggest issue with all this - ”

Harry sighs, flops backward, and tilts his head upward so he can meet her gaze. “Gin - you don’t have to explain - ”

“Thanks,” Ginny tosses her arms overhead and lets her feet slide straight out, “I’d never - well. Anyway. We’re down a Chaser.”

Taking a fortifying breath, Harry reaches across the space between them and brushes the back of her hand with his fingertips. “What about Trenton?”

Ginny snorts. “Nah - have you seen his ‘fake out’ swerve. We’re never going to win with a lazy maneuver like that and I’ll be damned if Malfoy beats us this year.”

“Too bad Hermione can’t fly to save her life,” Harry muses, brain filtering through the rest of their housemates, “We’d have the most organized tactics and training schedule ever.”

“Nope - she’d spend the whole time telling us we should be studying,” Ginny answers as she pushes to her feet with a sigh, “Which reminds me, I’ve got to be off.”

“Timetable?”

“Nah - meeting Dean,” Ginny says easily as she brushes a few blades of grass from her clothes, “Though I’d never have made plans if I knew I’d have to ditch a good ol’ strategy session.”

Harry stands too, feeling as though a fist has clenched around his heart in a strange, painful way. “We - uh. Raincheck?”

“‘Course,” Ginny says with a crooked smile, “See you when I see you?”

He agrees with a quiet nod and mounts his broom, skating across the sky as the sun dips toward the horizon.

* * *

It’s Monday and there’s less than a week till Saturday, November 2nd. Less than a week until they’re up against Ravenclaw on the pitch. And somehow, Harry doesn’t know why or how, but they’re still one player short. 

(Technically, he does know but there’s a long way between knowing and admitting it, isn’t it?)

Now it’s Tuesday and, while Monday was spent focusing more on the greater good of the team and less on his inner turmoil, Harry still hasn’t managed to summon all his remaining will power (that’s not wasted on either Snape or homework or helping Ron and Hermione remain civil in the face of Slug Club party invites) and ask Dean to join the team as a third Chaser.

It’s pretty clear that Katie won’t make an overnight recovery.

It’s common sense to offer the role to someone who’s a decent flyer and is well acquainted with the game.

It’s unreasonable to prolong the task of asking Dean much longer. All things considered.

So Harry spots him enjoying a bite of morning toast with pumpkin juice and perhaps a plate of hot gossip on the side, as Dean’s sat next to Seamus, who Harry has determined are attached at the hip. Sighing long and painful, Harry straightens his posture and prepares for whatever this is, a mantra of “I’m doing this for the team” on a loop at the back of his mind.

“Mornin’, Harry,” Dean greets cheerfully in between two swigs of fresh pumpkin juice. Of course, Seamus’ enthusiasm level lowers as soon as his eyes lock with Harry’s, but he’s starting to get used to it by now.

“Alright, mate? You look troubled,” Dean observes.

Harry waves him off and plows right in with another sigh, “Listen, we’re one Chaser too few on the team -”

“Yeah, I heard Katie’s still in the hospital -”

“Would you like to join?” Harry cuts him off before he can change his mind.

A pause and then both Dean and Seamus blink, confused.

“What?”

“I asked if you’d like to join the team as Chaser? Until Katie recovers, you know,” Harry hurries to add.

It’s Seamus who speaks first, elbow almost sending the porridge rolling off the table.

“Sounds mental to me, you and Ginny on the same team.”

Harry’s senses fire up and he holds his breath, silently urging Seamus to keep talking.

“‘S alright,” Dean shrugs, visibly bothered by his friend’s comment.

“Oh come on, mate,” Seamus grins, “it’s just Harry here. Last night you were going on and on about how she’s always so cheesed off ‘bout everything it makes you feel like you’ve botched every wee thing.”

“Yeah,” Dean agrees weakly as _ just Harry _ experiences a violent urge to hurt both of his ‘mates.’ Maybe hit their heads together until they cry or kindly ask Dobby to wet their beds as they sleep.

Unfortunately, he has to shake it all off and attempt to bleach his brain later _ before _ he breaks and tells Ron. And the rest of the Weasley clan. Though telling Ginny might solve a good number of his problems - _ and _ make him something of a wanker.

“So?” He asks again. “If you agree, you’ll have to clear your schedule anyway. We have practice this evening, all evening,” Harry underlines through gritted teeth.

Dean scratches at the back of his head, muses a bit and then gives his final answer, “Yeah, alright. Can’t let Ravenclaw walk all over us,” he grins and claps Harry on the shoulder.

Harry can’t decide if he’s in a mood to shout at everyone who speaks to him because of Dean’s insolent comments and confidences about his relationship with Ginny or because of his implication that they won’t stand a chance against Ravenclaw if he doesn’t join the team. Either way, Harry takes it personally enough to grunt and snap at people all day.

And Quidditch practice doesn’t make it any better. He’d hoped that it’d offer the right outlet to clear the angst clouding his mind. But of course, he should’ve known by now that counting his chickens before they are hatched is completely useless. 

In reality, Harry agrees that this practice session has been the worst so far, so much so that even Ginny looks forlorn and Demelza’s eyes water constantly.

Cursing under his breath, Harry shivers in the cold, biting October air and checks the time. It’s well past ten in the evening and there’s nothing more he can do for this lot than send them inside to a hot shower and a cuppa (or a long sleepless night sprinkled with self-loathing in his case). 

He drags his feet next to Ron, uncertain if he’d rather smack him over the head to stop his complaining or to do it to himself. If Harry thinks about it, Ron’s performance seems to depend on his mood and Harry reckons he’s not quite yet recovered from their little Slug Club themed conversation from Herbology class last week. Hermione’d almost managed to invite Ron to join her at the Christmas party when Ron’s fragile ego got in the way. 

Harry sighs for the millionth time, rubs at the prickling in his scar. 

Perhaps cracking his own skull would represent the desirable option right now, between a best mate whose spirits are below sea level, conflicting feelings for a certain redhead and a probable defeat in the first match he’s ever captained his team to.

And speaking of redheads, there’s Ginny on her way to the castle, hand in hand with Dean. Harry doesn’t know what he was expecting exactly. That Ginny would hang back with him after practice, as she’s done till now? That she won’t talk to Dean or hug him or even kiss him during practice breaks? And why wouldn’t she? He _ is _ her boyfriend, even though Harry wouldn’t hurry to crown him boyfriend of the year anytime soon. 

And who’s Harry to her? A mate. Her older brother’s best mate. That’s it, yeah. Just a mate. Just Harry.

He’s about to make peace with those thoughts when Ron’s face blanches and he stops dead in his tracks. 

Harry has to squint to understand what’s prompted Ron’s reaction and for a moment he fears Viktor Krum’s back to kiss Hermione, tired of waiting for Ron to finally gather his courage and do it. But then the torch hanging over a small annex in the middle of the deserted corridor casts its gentle, quivering light over two people, tightly glued against each other, kissing fervently.

His heart sinks so low the Giant Squid might stumble across it when his eyes adjust to realise they’ve walked in on Ginny and Dean.

Ginny and Dean kissing like he’s never seen someone kiss, their hands in each other’s hair and their bodies pressed hard together. He’d probably blush if not for the growling beast in his chest, demanding that Harry do something fast.

Still Ron reacts faster and him and Ginny are in each other’s faces in less than a heartbeat. Weasley tempers are terrible on a good day and grisly on shite days like this. Harry’s confident they’d start hexing and kicking each other if not for his jumping between them.

It’s ugly and petty on both sides, both siblings pouring salt over open wounds, and Harry’s left to awkwardly say goodbye to Dean like nothing’s happened.

Later, alone in his bed, covers pulled up over his head, he’d have time to think about how he’d tear Dean limb from limb for kissing Ginny like that - or for kissing her at all. Yeah, later he’d have time to plan and imagine and probably work himself into a fit over the image of them tattooed on his brain. Indeed, there’ll be enough time to thoroughly hate himself and the world later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will come your way on November 1st!


	3. November

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a day late but here nonetheless! we hope you enjoy this update.
> 
> love
> 
> fightfortherightsofhouseelves and gryffindormischief

Hallowe’en, for all he knows of it now, was a boring event during the first eleven years of Harry’s life. Dudley would gorge himself on candy, gather up his cronies to increase their usual levels of Harry-focused torment, and Harry would simply wait for the day to end like he did any other. 

Since his first year at Hogwarts, the end of October has generally been a mix of angst and some sort of life-endangering drama. In between, the Hallowe’en feast at least provided some form of light hearted fun. 

When October 30th dawned, Harry had been looking forward to a day spent playing quidditch and avoiding Hermione’s heavy handed comments about the importance of revising early and thoroughly. By the time the sun sets, Harry’s almost hoping Voldemort plans to finish what he started fifteen Hallowe’ens ago. 

At least he would only have to tolerate another twenty-four hours of Ron’s moping. 

It’s not enough that practice was shite and they’re basically about to be destroyed on the pitch in less than a week. Ron’s got to go all dramatic and say he plans to _ resign _. Harry finds himself wondering if there’s an encouraging way to say he’d rather have shite Ron than deal with McLaggen’s diva attitude. 

After supper in the Great Hall, Harry loses himself in the rush of students and eventually wanders into the courtyard - moonlit and delightfully abandoned. 

Finally feeling like his brain has an opportunity for _ quiet _, Harry drops down onto the ledge surrounding the fountain and throws his arm over his eyes. 

His spine pops a bit at being stretched so absolutely but in that good ‘am I creepy to enjoy this’ way. 

Water spray tickles his bare skin, a touch icy despite whatever charms keep it from freezing over and Harry almost feels he could drift off. And maybe he does, until a throat clears and draws him from his funk. 

Craning his neck only enough to identify the interloper, Harry finds Ginny Weasley eyeing him with a raised brow. “Don’t think pneumonia will get you out of this game.”

“Imagine if Oliver Wood heard I skipped out for a less than deadly ailment.”

Ginny laughs and wanders closer as Harry pushes himself into a sitting position and muses, “He’d probably be more disappointed I’ve let the Gryffindor team fall into such a state.”

Shrugging, Ginny picks at her fingernails and says, “Are you telling me Wood never lead a bad practice? You can’t put everyone’s performance on yourself. It’s up to us at some point, yeah?”

Harry glances up and meets Ginny’s gaze, so confident and strong when he recalls her blushing looks his first year. 

Hell, she’s confident and strong on any litmus test and Harry can’t help but be bolstered by her words, ready to fight another day so to speak. 

While he considers some new tactics to implement - on the field and in a more mental preparation type way - Harry finds he doesn’t feel the need to drop his eyes from Ginny’s. 

And she hasn’t either. 

It’s almost tangible, the feeling building in his chest. So much that he almost wishes it was mutual. Until he remembers Dean and severs the connection. 

“Thanks, Gin.”

Her smile is small, but real enough. “Anytime Harry.”

* * *

By November 2nd, Harry’s so fed up with Ron and his constant fuming and grouching around, he’s almost willing to forget the past six years of friendship for the two minutes he’d need to properly bitchslap his best mate.

Seeing that nobody (maybe except Ginny) would regard such behaviour as captain-y, Harry sighs and sucks it up. There’s a match they must win today after all. So he pretends his little old hand slips with a dash of lucky potion exactly when Hermione happens to be looking. Oops.

At least now Ron’s chuffed and his ego oiled and pampered enough to pull some actual Keeping out of him. Harry can see it in the way Ron walks, prances, struts his way to the pitch - and he shakes his head and smiles. The match is certainly theirs.

It’s only when Harry catches a glimpse of red from the corner of his eye, rapidly obstructed by broader, less delightful Dean-shaped figure hovering over her for his own version of Felix Felicis: a kiss from Ginny. 

Something inside Harry’s chest growls dangerously and he draws a long, shuddering breath to silence it. Not the time, he thinks. 

Jaw set and hardened, Harry trots together with the Gryffindor team, entering the pitch in roaring, thundering applause. It’s deafening.

And they do win - how could they not? It’s exhilarating, and the whole team gathers in a spine-numbing hug around Harry, and Ron’s so proud and glowing the knowledge that this win is his as much as any of the others’. 

Until Hermione just can’t help herself and confronts Harry so he admits, figures it’s safe to let Ron know it was all him now. No Felix, only him. But of course he finds a way to turn his win into a kick to his ego, it’s Ron. 

Looking at his best mates hurt and mad, at Ginny disappearing with Dean, at his team chanting their way back to the castle in the midst of happy shouts from their fellow Gryffindors, Harry can’t bring himself to feel too excited. There’s an annoying voice at the back of his mind whispering that the worst is yet to come. 

Dumbledore should just hire him to co-teach Divination with Trelawny and Firenze because it seems he’s a natural at it. Exactly as he feared, things do take a new, ugly turn just when he relaxes enough to forget about the looming danger of his best mates jumping at each other’s throats and Ginny points out that Ron’s already jumped - but not at Hermione and in a totally different way than Harry’s imagined.

Ron and Lavender. Lavender and Ron. All Harry can do is blink and...blink some more. Talk about unexpected.

The door to the Common Room slams shut and Harry closes his eyes tightly, silently curses Ron and slips out after Hermione, unnoticed. It’s hard seeing her like this, heart broken and crying all alone. Harry tries his best to support her, but he knows it’s useless...If he allows himself three seconds of honesty, he’d actually tell her that he’d been feeling the same for awhile. So they sit next to each other in silence, the sad and the broken.

Until Ron barges in, Lavender in a fit of giggles in his wake and Hermione looks more mad than Harry’s ever seen her. The insane, pained look in her eyes - it’s terrifying.

And she curses him, and Harry catches the shock on his best friend’s face before the birds hit and the pain sets in. 

What a mess. 

Later, when he says goodbye to Hermione in the Common Room, Harry climbs the stairs to his dorm feeling bereft, opens the door and readies himself for another blow.

But Dean’s inside, head leaning towards Seamus. It seems like Harry’s interrupted an important talk because both boys jump a bit when he walks in. Still, Harry pays them no mind and rushes out through the door, Cloak securely in his pocket. 

“What the fuck.”

Harry grins. There’s only one mouth who could’ve said that, belonging to only one person who could’ve guessed there’s someone attempting to sneak out of the Gryffindor Tower invisibly.

“Hello to you too,” Harry bumps Ginny’s elbow from under the Cloak.

“Going incognito, are we?” Ginny arches an eyebrow, looking somewhere in Harry’s general direction. 

“Too much drama, had to hide.”

She pretends to sigh, “Ah, well, I was about to hit the kitchen for some hot milk with cinnamon but don’t let me stop your little undercover mission.”

It’s an invitation to food _ and _mischief and Harry’s not about to let it slip by. 

“Lead on.”

Ginny does grin, satisfied and raises her palms to feel around her, “Make way, I’m coming in.”

“You sure it’s enough space for the both of us?” Harry teases.

She takes one look at him and shrugs.

“Not my fault if that bum of yours got too big. You should really cut down on your treacle tart intake.”

Harry pouts and tickles her mercilessly in return. His fingers play over her middle, tickling everywhere as she laughs and dances away from him, Cloak fluttering around them but Harry doesn’t care. All he wants now is her laugh, loud and boisterous, and Ginny...Ginny, with her freckled face and blazing look, Ginny laughing in his arms as they’re hidden in plain sight. Ginny. 

He doesn’t have the map, but by now sneaking to the kitchens is something he could do in his sleep. Overall, it feels nice to be doing something stealthy for reasons related to treacle tart and impressing a girl rather than investigating the dark activities of your classmates.

The journey from the common room passes quickly as Ginny murmurs cheeky stories about each of the portraits; likely made up and all the more fun for it. When he tickles the pear and slips inside behind Ginny, Dobby is immediately on them, nearly knocking Harry over as he tucks the Invisibility Cloak away.

Ginny grins at Harry over Dobby’s head as they’re ushered to one of the long tables and seated with much prodding from the house elf’s spindly fingers. As has become something of a custom, Dobby praises Harry to an excessive degree and with Ginny as witness, he can’t help but blush.

Once they’ve requested treacle tart and warm milk to go along with it, Dobby departs with a flap of his ears and Ginny nudges Harry. “Eleven year old me would be so disappointed.”

“Because I’m quite boring and sneak about to get treats?”

Ginny laughs. “No - that would’ve been a selling feature. I mean young Ginny fancied herself your biggest fan, but it appears she’s been overtaken.”

Grinning, Harry props his chin on his hand and for some reason decides _ now _will be the time he’s finally able to wink without looking like he’s got something in his eyes. Based on Ginny’s stifled chuckles, he doesn’t succeed, but he can’t really hate anything that raises that smile on her face.

Dobby returns, deposits their plates and mugs on the table, and disappears off to manage something or other while Harry cuts two healthy slices from the fresh tart. “He’s never given me a singing card though.”

And then, to Harry’s everlasting joy, Ginny actually blushes and stalls for time by taking a sip so overlarge she begins coughing almost instantly. He rises, ready to slap her back or do any manner of things to set her right - even the torture of a purely medical press of his lips to hers - but she soon recovers.

Ginny swipes the tears from her eyes with a sigh. “That was _ not _nice.”

“Haven’t you heard? I’m both deluded _ and _a delinquent.”

“Is that a quote from Umbridge or Skeeter?” Ginny asks around a bite of treacle.

“Joke’s on you, it was Snape,” Harry shoots back, taking a long sip of his milk.

“Well if the supreme potions master turned defense against the dark arts teacher says so it _ must _ be true,” Ginny drawls, placing air quotes around _ defense _.

Harry pushes his glasses up, more for something to do than from genuine need, and nibbles on a bit of crust. “D’you trust him?”

Her smile is sad now, even as her eyes bore into his. “I find the number of people I genuinely trust gets smaller and smaller with each passing year. You’re probably the only person I would say that to.”

“Dunno if my agreement is a vote of confidence in the intelligence of your judgment,” Harry mutters, picking at his tart.

Scoffing, Ginny tosses a serviette in his face and cuts another sliver for herself. “Stuff it, you know you’re brilliant. I came here for sweets, not to fluff your ego so you turn into a preening arsehole,” she grins at the end, her lips twisted in a dangerous smile, “_ Speaking of my brother _-”

“He and Hermione may end me before ol’ Moldy-shorts.”

* * *

“Not like it’s any of my business,” Harry drawls, turning a page of the Prince’s book, “But shouldn’t you tell him?”

“And what exactly should I be telling who?” Hermione volleys right back, tone a little waspish.

Harry draws in a breath, already regretting he’s opened the subject - but they are in the library and if he’s forced to spend another hour with Hermione looking at Ron out of the corner of her eye and Ron looking back at her from two tables away, where he’s studying with Lavender and Parvati, he’s pretty positive he’ll basically move in with Hagrid.

“Ron. Why don’t you just tell Ron that you’re sorry?”

Hermione slams her book shut, looks at Harry dangerously.

“Whatever should I be sorry for?”

“Does it even matter?” Harry answers, clipped. “Look, Hermione,” he pauses and sighs, “the two of you are my best mates and it’s difficult watching you angsting around instead of talking and, you know, sorting things out.”

“Well then,” Hermione jumps to her feet like an angry cat, “I will go _ angst _ somewhere else then.”

Harry can hear her stomping out of the library, completely ignoring Madam Pince or anyone else for that matter. With one last look at Ron, Harry lays his forehead on the old battered book, removes his glasses and closes his eyes. Why is having feelings so complicated?

When Harry finally convinces himself that there’ll be no more studying in the real sense of the word for the day, he throws all his stuff in his bag, takes another look at Ron’s ginger head, hoping he’d somehow manage to telepathically convey that he’s acting a bit like a git for the wrong reasons, then trots out of the library, the castle, and down towards Hagrid’s. 

Later, when he’s gorged himself on Hagrid’s special rock cakes and he’d drank enough hot tea to keep the cold outside at bay, Harry finally starts to feel better. It’s nice near the fire, Fang resting his big head on his lap as Harry scratches him between the ears.

“I heard Ron’s with Lavender, eh?” Hagrid starts, dropping on the seat next to Harry, his pink apron fluttering about him.

Harry raises one eyebrow, but grins, “News travel at the speed of light, then.”

“We professors know more than you kids think,” he chuckles pleased.

There’s a pause, interrupted only by Fang’s deep snores.

“How’s Hermione?”

Harry studies him intently before he answers.

“She’s been better, I suppose.”

“Ye know, Harry, I like Ron. He’s a good lad, but sometimes he’s not too smart,” Hagrid stares into the dancing flames of the fire and shakes his head, dark hair falling down in rings around his big, kind face.

“Why do you say that?”

“Yer a smart boy, ye’ll figure it out,” Hagrid winks. “And Hermione too, she ain’t the brightest witch o’ her age for nothing. They are somethin’, those redheads. Right, Harry?” He goes on to chuckle and Harry can feel himself blush. 

Yet he pretends he didn’t understand, finds a good enough excuse to leave and drags his feet back to the castle in the near dark of an end of day, his bag full with rock cakes and untouched homework.

He falls asleep that night holding the Marauder’s Map, eyes boring into Ginny’s dot, waiting for it to move and return to the Common Room, to at least exit the classroom it shared with Dean’s dot for the past hour. Ironic, if Ron only knew there was only one wall between himself and his sister…

Harry’s last thought before he dreams is of Hermione and how lucky she is not to have a magical Map.

* * *

Over time, one of the strangest things Harry’s realized about his life - which seems quite adventurous to an outsider - is that it’s filled with long stretches of normalcy. The difficulty that is singular to his particular situation, is that even the most calm, boring, normal times feel like borrowed minutes that will turn sour and deadly at any moment.

Living with this sort of dichotomy of feelings leaves him to sleepless or fitful nights, and often a sour stomach that can’t quite manage to settle. As a result, his today breakfast is a sparse affair with barely buttered toast and a cup of tea so strong his spoon could stand.

Overall, when he takes a figurative step back and examines himself, Harry can admit he’s having something of a pity party. His best mates are quarreling like a couple on the verge of divorce, the girl he should think of like a sister is haunting his daydreams in decidedly _ non _sisterly ways, everyone seems to be dating except him, and most days he’s torn between avoiding seeing Ginny and Dean or Ron and Lavender. 

Really though, the thing he feels the most _ angry _ about is the fact that he really _ doesn’t _ have the luxury to dwell on any of that shite. He’s bloody sixteen years old and instead of spending his free time escaping the library and mooning over a girl who fancied him until right about when he...did not. He _ does not _.

Regardless, the point is he’s spending most days diving into a genocidal maniac’s childhood and trying to determine exactly how his classmate is going to wreak dark magic havoc on the unsuspecting student body, rather than wallowing like a good, normal, angsty teenager.

So he does the only thing he knows. After breakfast, Harry manages to wedge himself between students and slip from the hall and out onto the grounds. Nothing like a good fly to calm his wild thoughts, he muses on the way.

He reaches the stands in record time, retrieves his broom and feels it hum to life in his palm, and finally trots out to the snowy pitch. Only to find he’s not the only student with the idea.

And as he watches her fly in graceful arcs across the sky, swirling and sending her hair twisting like a wild red pennant, Harry’s chest clenches. 

She flips upside down, arms spread as she lets out a loud whoop and Harry feels himself breathe freely, even if just for a moment, and slips back into the shadows.


	4. December

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here you all go! December is here and we are happy to share this holiday season update. much love, fightfortherightsofhouseelves & gryffindormischief

December roars in like a lion, harsh and unrelenting with gusting winds and ever growing snowdrifts that seem to hedge the castle’s inhabitants inside either by impassibility or _ impossibility _ . The wind chill dipped low enough that Harry nearly didn’t try to sneak out for a fly, but even as he did Filch _ and _Madam Hooch each caught Harry on his path to the pitch. Still, he did duck their attention and sneak past the courtyard beneath his cloak. 

And yet, the moment his boots crunched in the snow, Harry felt as if the cold, blustering wind chapped nearly every inch of his body, exposed or not. Disappointed and somewhat damp, Harry trooped back indoors and did his best to vanish his puddling tracks to avoid detection as well as detention. Harry feels like a bit of a ponce for laughing at his own joke but honestly he’s begun to reach the point where he can’t deny himself simple, dull pleasures when the majority of his existence feels like one self-denial after the next. 

The most glaring of which, is an increasingly uncomfortable pang ringing through his chest every time he sees the swish of Ginny’s robes, his lungs draw in a breath of her scent, or she says something brilliant and cheeky. Hell, sometimes he’s sitting in the humid greenhouses listening to Professor Sprout warn them about some venomous, bloodsucking, carnivorous something or other and Harry’s mind wanders to the slant of Ginny’s smile or the delightful peal of her laughter. 

And then Ron will pass him a note or just let out a snort in his sleep and Harry feels the chain of responsibility to his best mate tighten around his heart.

It wouldn’t be a betrayal in the classic sense. But risking Ron, the Weasleys, Hermione - and even Ginny herself - for the possibility of returned..._ feelings _or whatever seems like a gamble he can’t take. Not when everything good in his life seems like it hangs from one delicate thread. 

Now, as he sits across from Ron in the common room, each half-assing the chapter questions to prepare them for the next day’s Potions lesson, Harry shoves all thoughts of Ginny down low and deep so they settle like lead in his stomach. At least it feels like he can breathe again.

Which is for the best, since his Lavender-free Ron time is low and half the time when he _ does _get it there’s some related drama that manages to worm its way in.

So when they’re nearing the end of their problem sets - with the Prince’s assist - Harry decides to take full advantage and grabs the community chess board. “How’d you like to wipe the floor with me in a game?”

Ron frowns thoughtfully. “I can always tutor you, Harry,” and then a hint of mischief teases his lips, “You’re not a _ total _dunce.”

Kicking his shin beneath the table, Harry shoves their books and other detrius aside, settling the board on the table with a dull thud and the clatter of loose pieces.

Considering this _ is _a community board, it’s remarkable how many pieces have remained intact and actually with the board. Plus, it’s an unspoken rule that if a student finds the board with missing pieces they are obligated to fill the empty place with something creative and magically enhanced. 

Overall, they’ve just got mismatched bits from other boards and one intricate Origami-type knight that flits about the board rather than sliding like the rest. 

Harry and Ron volley the first few rounds back and forth quickly, and almost as quickly Harry loses two pawns and Ron commands his full army like a proud general.

The fire crackles warmly in the grate as they continue game-play with no losses and Ron gradually enacts what Harry’s almost certain will be his undoing. It’s an odd thing because on one hand, Harry _ hates _to lose and on the other, watching Ron in action is a sight to behold. Although the casual ‘tips’ that really sound more like taunts are going to earn him some itching powder in his sheets.

Harry’s just _ finally _taken one pawn and from the gleam in Ron’s eye fallen right into the trap set for him, when the sickly sweet scent of Lavender’s perfume engulfs the table.

And though Ron’s hormone induced googly eyes have cleared somewhat since that fateful victory party, he still abandons Harry mid-game with promises to resume.

Leaving Harry positive that the itch powder plot will _ definitely _ be unleashed and wondering whether this is how relationships _ go _.

It’s not that he doesn’t understand the infatuation, he _ wishes _ he didn’t to be honest, but to be so wrapped up - and to _ let _someone be so wrapped up.

Not that it’s Lavender’s fault, but could it be right to be with someone who doesn’t recognize how important your mates are? To let someone take so much of your sense that you alienate one and ditch the other at the drop of a hat?

He doesn’t begrudge Ron fun, or a life outside of him and Hermione, but things should _ fit _ not drive a wedge. At least in Harry’s mind. 

His dream girlfriend would fit in right alongside them all, bust his arse and tease Ron, love Hermione _ and _ give her a run for her money. She would - well perhaps further detail isn’t the best considering his train of thought gets narrower and narrower and it begins to become clear that his dream, his ideal, is very real and very unattainable.

* * *

The days until December 20, when the Slug Club Christmas Party will be upon Harry and his frail nerves (and probably so will jolly Professor Slughorn), resemble a maze filled with booby traps to Harry. In this particular case, the booby traps are laid by fellow Gryffindor Romilda Vane, by his best mates’ quarreling, by Ron snogging Lavender ostentatiously all over Hogwarts, and of course by Draco plotting his sneaky plots in full liberty because no one would simply _ listen _.

By December 20, at precisely eight in the evening, Romilda Vane’s tried to push spiked gillywater on him, offered him probably love potion infested Chocolate Cauldrons, if what Hermione’s heard in the girls’ bathroom is correct. Hermione herself announced she’s attending the party with that McLaggen buffoon so loud that she might as well have shouted from the Astronomy Tower while Ron morphed into the pettiest version of himself by laughing at Hermione in class leaving Luna of all people as the one to comfort her back in the girls’ bathroom again.

So many things happening in that bathroom, so many stupid feelings Harry really doesn’t want to deal with. 

Therefore he sends everything to hell and surprises himself by inviting Luna to the party, as friends. At least she’s a decent human being, doesn’t giggle absurdly, and is genuinely kind. At least he has that.

And the Prince. Yeah, the Prince helps more than his real life friends most of these days. 

Forlorn and sighing, Harry nearly confesses his loneliness and despair to Hedwig since both friends aren’t available and Ginny’s...probably getting ready for her date with Dean Thomas. He hasn’t asked, but by now Harry’s fairly certain she’s bound to go with Dean to the Slug Club party, dance with Dean, kiss Dean.

With another sigh, Harry checks the time: 7:50 PM. Time to go. 

As he enters the theatrically adorned chamber next to Luna, a crowd of girls glowering in their wake, his eyes scan the space for hints of red hair. Instead, he finds Hermione looking harassed and dishevelled, in a hurry to escape McLaggen’s less than desirable presence and attentions. He’d really love to confront her with a most heartfelt _ I told you so _ , but he’s got more pressing matters on his plate at the moment. Such as why isn’t Ginny at the party, is she alright, what did that berk do to her and also why is that slimy git Malfoy _ sneaking _ in? Isn’t he supposed to have known Slughorn since he was in nappies or some such?

If he’d ever be asked to recount what happened after Malfoy’s impromptu appearance, he’d only be able to say what he’d been saying for the past four months: that Draco Malfoy is up to something. Which apparently is not enough for anybody because the situation is as stale as before. Malfoy is indeed up to something, Snape is helping him and the world is closing its eyes and ears and letting it happen. Brilliant.

As he drags his feet back to the Common Room, Harry’s mind buzzing with the latest information, he still has half a hope that the Fat Lady will swing aside to let him in and there’ll be Ginny, alone in the armchair by the fire, studying or maybe even taking a moment to relax in spite of the ever looming OWLs.

But there’s no one waiting for him behind the portrait door and no fire in the hearth. Just the Common Room, drafty and chill, motionless and deadly quiet in the dark. 

There’s no Dean either in their shared bedroom. No Ron and no Seamus. Only Neville, lightly snoring from beneath his sheets. 

Perhaps they’ve all gone to a party of their own.

Perhaps they’re happy and laughing and don’t need him anymore.

Perhaps...it’s time he sleeps. After all, they’ll be leaving Hogwarts soon and there’s so much he needs to do before he boards the train.

Harry sighs, hugs the pillow closer to his chest and closes his eyes.

* * *

The train trundles over the tracks that slice through the Scottish countryside, dark against the blanket of snow continually refreshed by flurries slowly drifting from the clouds overhead.

Harry’s tried more than a few times to close his eyes for a brief rest, only to be jostled either nearly to the floor or so that his forehead slams against the chilled glass window. Even if he could find a comfortable position, his mind is still whirring with the details of Snape and Malfoy’s conversation. It had been just vague enough that no one was going to believe him. At least not enough to actually _ do _ something with the information. Nevermind that Malfoy had bashed Harry’s nose in and left him for dead or at least for severe discomfort and intense inconvenience. _ Harry _ was apparently reading into things, imagining the odd conversations and even stranger behavior, and Malfoy meanwhile was a bloody Prefect.

Honestly, it’s reached the point where it feels as if his life has no point. He tries and searches and puts himself in danger and still each year it’s a random series of events that he can’t plan or prepare for that lead to near death or - well in the worst cases there have been deaths. And for all Harry’s targeted by Voldemort and his supporters, it never feels like he’s earned the distinction by doing anything but somehow managing to stay alive.

He’s just let his forehead thud against the glass again, the cool pane easing the ever-present ache of his scar, when the compartment door slides open.

Harry’s hoping for Ron, sans Lavender and his recent bad attitude, but finds another Weasley studying him curiously.

“Hey, Gin.”

She blinks. “What’s with the face, sad man?”

Slumping lower in his seat, Harry props his legs on the opposite bench and sighs. “I just feel - do you ever - ”

He can’t quite work out the words to explain himself, not without sounding like a wingy baby _ or _giving Ginny a dangerous amount of information. When he glances up, Ginny’s still eyeing him speculatively.

“You haven’t narrowed things down much with those little fragments,” Ginny says, lips kicking up in a wry half smile.

“It just feels like, year after year, I’m left with these huge decisions and responsibilities and people _ die _ and it’s my fault. And still no one ever _ believes _me when I tell them shite is about to go down.”

Ginny pauses a moment before perching on the bench opposite him and smoothing her school robes. “I think - well I suppose the first thing I should like to address is the fact that none of this is _ ever _your fault, Harry.”

Her eyes are watery and her voice is low and full of fire as she continues, gaze pinned to her dark tights. “Riddle, he - he does what he wants, when he wants, and you’re one of the far too few people who’ve recognized him for what he is and _ done _ something about it. Not sitting around the wireless and having a good long chat. You’re - you’re always out in the thick of things and risking your stupid, noble neck and if idiots like _ Skeeter _or anyone else have shite to say about you well then - “

One angry tear escapes down her cheek, though her jaw is set firm. “Then they’ll have me to answer to, yeah?”

She chuckles darkly and shrugs, “As for nobody believing you, I’d suggest lessons from Lockhart but I suppose that’s not really feasible, eh?”

“He was fairly expert winning converts.”

There’s a pause and quiet settles between them while the Hogwarts Express rattles through the snow before Ginny rises and pats Harry’s knee. “For what it’s worth, I’m always in your corner.”

“I could be a complete nutter.”

“You haven’t been wrong yet,” Ginny says with a shrug as she grips the door handle, “Except about that weird moustache attempt at the start of October. Not good.”

Harry flushes. “Ron is a pranking arsehole.”

“Sure,” Ginny winks.

Rubbing at the back of his neck, Harry manages a somewhat strangled goodbye. “Have a uh - nice time with Dean.”

Ginny’s mouth opens and closes around nothing before she smiles, almost forced seeming. “Sure. See you at home then.”

* * *

Like Hogwarts, the Burrow has always given Harry a very _at_ _home _feeling. The smell of a fresh, steaming meal cooked with love and care, the lilt of so many laughs shared between the cramped little house’s inhabitants, the paper chains and fairy lights Ginny likes to put up every Christmas, everything gives Harry the feeling that he’s welcomed and safe. 

Hermione’s presence is the only missing element to Harry, mostly in the moments they usually spent in the room beneath the attic. He can picture every detail, Hermione sitting cross legged on one of the beds, a book on her lap, Ron and Harry daring each other to another round of Exploding Snap or simply laughing - probably because Fleur said something equally snotty and funny while Mrs Weasley nearly combusted and Bill looked lovingly at his bride to be. 

But Hermione isn’t here and Ron and her aren’t talking anymore. Harry doesn’t want to complain, Ron’s his best mate and all, but Lavender just gifted him a ghastly Won-Won locket for Christmas and if Ron’s too daft to put a stop to this then someone really should.

In all fairness, Kreacher’s maggots aren’t _ that _ appalling right now.

Or maybe they are and Harry’s just a bit sour that his best mate and his girlfriend are gross, who knows. 

Still, when Harry lightly jokes about this with Ginny because he can’t really help himself and he’s long since stopped denying himself the simple pleasure of...conversing with her (and perhaps peeking to see if Dean’s sent her anything for Christmas - a failed mission, Ginny’s much too careful and private), her only reaction is:

“Don’t you dare knock some sense into him. This is too entertaining to stop so soon.”

And the mischievous grin on her face as she says it is what truly does Harry in: he accepts that he either blurts out his feelings or combusts from the pressure of keeping everything mashed up inside his chest. 

Thankfully, it’s Bill who saves him from something that could have easily become Harry’s single most embarrassing memory by calling them both to help with Christmas dinner preparations. 

Ginny marches down with a roll of her eyes and a snide comment, while Harry feels lighter somehow and so very thankful.

Before he steps out of the living room however Bill’s hand falls steady on his shoulder.

“Don’t take too long,” he says, looking Harry in the eye for a beat. 

Harry’s left to wonder what to say, if he intended to convey what Harry thinks he did, and finally how did he guess...

It’s funny how other people can read your heart in an instant when it takes you months to even begin to realise. Life’s funny like that. Harry’s life at least. 

When Harry reaches the cosy dinner party, he’s pushed in a chair between Fleur and Ron, the latter’s mouth already full with what seems to be a bite of what each platter has to offer. The table’s an impressive blend between mouth-watering smells and the clatter of forks and knives, the hearth crackling invitingly in the background, the room lit with candles upon candles perched on lampads serenely floating by magic. 

Turkey, roast potatoes, stuffing, pigs in blankets, Yorkshire Pudding, gravy, Brussel sprouts, cranberry sauce, Christmas pudding, and mince pies, all garnish the Weasley family table as the wireless plays lowly (sans Celestina Warbeck tonight) and they eat and talk and feel merry.

“Is Hermione not joining us, dear?” Mrs Weasley asks the room at large although, to Harry, her question seems pointed. 

Ron coughs briefly into his plate, grunts something akin to a “No” as Ginny takes her time rolling her eyes for a dramatic effect.

“She was - er, busy,” Harry half-asses an excuse as he generously dips another bite of turkey into a nice serving of gravy.

“What I’d give to be sixteen again and starting a relationship,” Mrs Weasley chuckles, her eyes glazed over, mind already down memory lane.

“What _ would _ you give, Molly dear?” Mr Weasley teases.

“Oh, I don’t know, but remember the thrill of seeing each other in Hogsmeade, Arthur? Nothing compared to those weekends. Ah, so lovely being young and in love,” she smiles, rising to bring another plate full of steaming hot turkey.

And perhaps it’s not just Harry who notices the ill looking shade on Ron’s face and that his fork hasn’t scooped any bites for a good couple of minutes. 

“How’re things with that Dean Thomas guy, little sis?” Bill changes the topic, casually asking over the dinner table and Harry can swear he’d seen him wink in his general direction.

Ginny simply shrugs, “None of your business.”

“Now come on, Ginny,” Fred grins.

“We’re only looking after you, as responsible big brothers,” George continues.

“No need,” she drawls between two spoonfuls of pudding.

“We heard he’s a good flyer,” George pipes up, grinning dangerously. 

“But does he have any other qualities?” Fred wiggles his eyebrows.

Ginny pauses, looks them both in the eyes and mutters, “Plenty.”

To be completely honest, Harry was expecting a furtive glance or maybe a different answer - perhaps a merge between “He’s a terrible kisser” and “I’ve dumped him.”

Instead a simple word, _ plenty _, is what makes his food come back with haste and it takes all his willpower to fight it back. Plenty.

He’s now joined Ron in the ill looking, besotted fools’ corner, unable to eat another bite because suddenly everything tastes like bleach down his throat. Always together like the best mates they are, eh. 

_ Plenty _.

And it all goes further down spiralling at lightning speed when Percy, as pompous as ever, trots in importantly, the Minister at his tails. 

Harry can’t recall exactly when everybody’s retreated to their rooms, Mrs Weasley a mess of tears and hiccups, Mr Weasley looking broken hearted and all their children feeling angry and ready to throw a punch up Percy’s nose. Hell, Harry feels the same and him and Percy aren’t even related.

The following five days leading up to the New Year are somewhat tamer, freestyle Quidditch (Christmas themed), listening to Bill and Fleur swap stories from Egypt and France, and Exploding Snap tournaments with a Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes twist included. Learning about Veelas and curse breaking amongst century old mummies of former pharaohs is more interesting than Harry’d ever guessed and he can’t help but think that both Bill and Fleur might fit better in an Indiana Jones movie than crammed in a small cottage in Devon.

Which is a slightly peculiar thought considering he himself has always hated the spotlight but somehow some of the Weasleys seem to belong there, to dazzle, to impress effortlessly. 

Ginny, for instance, she’s...a superb flyer. She’d belong nowhere better than on a pitch, kicking arse and smart-mouthing everyone around her, wild red hair flying all over, impish smile widely flashing.

Ginny. Unwillingly he’d found himself around her a great deal more since that little “plenty” thing. As if she’s sought him again and again, as if to show him that perhaps she didn’t mean it like it sounded. 

But then again why wouldn’t she? Dean is her boyfriend, as Harry’d been so bluntly reminded not five days before.

Still, whenever he does find a cosy spot on the couch, there’s Ginny next to him. At the table, his elbow bumps into hers as they eat, exchanging looks and jokes unspoken. Before bed, her eyes linger just a second longer, her fingers fiddling, teeth sinking into her bottom lip.

And as they celebrate the New Year - ah, Harry believes he needs a good old crowbar over the head because she’s beautiful, her deep brown eyes filled with sparks and colours as the fireworks crash and collide in the night sky, and he’s insane enough to stand next to her. He’s such a fool.

Ten.

Nine.

Eight.

She looks up at him, eyes big and waiting.

Seven.

Six.

His heart beats faster.

Five.

Four.

Three.

“Harry…”

Two.

“Would you...?”

One.

Her hands clasp at the back of his neck, her temple flush against his chest, against that heart that can’t stop beating and he sits there like a sad, sad fool as Ginny slowly dips her head to look him in the eyes.

She’s impossibly beautiful, flowery scent intoxicating his brain.

“Harry, do you promise me?”

He has no idea what she’s asking him to promise, but he is completely certain he’d even promise her the moon if only she’d ask for it.

“What we talked about on our way home. On the train.”

What they talked about…? Oh.

“Promise you’ll stay away from danger this year, that you’ll fight that noble impulse of yours? Bugger Malfoy or Snape or anyone else, just stay safe, Harry, please,” she whispers, arms still around him and Harry hopes she’d hold him like that forever.

Forever only lasts a second and not more sometimes because as soon as he nods, she’s gone with another glance full to the brink with something so intense and yet with absolutely nothing.

Happy New Year, Harry. You’re still all alone and very lonely.


	5. January

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy 2020!!!
> 
> All credit for this lovely chapter goes to fightfortherightsofhouseelves
> 
> we hope you enjoy! much love. <3

Life hits Harry smack over the back of his head the minute he steps back into Hogwarts and into the new year. 

Right from the first day, from the very start; disbelief and anger sit nestled in Hermione’s raised eyebrow as Harry tells her about Snape and the Vow and she fights Harry’s arguments syllable by syllable even before he’s finished; they hide at the back of Harry’s mind as Dumbledore takes him down another lane of Riddle’s memories, riding fast into a brick wall. But most of all, disbelief and anger punch Harry in the face when Slughorn loses his temper and he knows it’s no use.

Everyone’s angry, vexed, and carrying on a war.

Feeling beaten, Harry washes down his horrid first week back with a jug of warm milk with honey, thanks Dobby, and slowly shuffles his slippers back to the Common Room well past midnight. 

He mumbles the password rather than states it in front of the Fat Lady and she swings open with a deep roll of her tired eyes. Apparently, she had been sound asleep before Harry considered it a good time to snoop back inside and into bed.

Turning a deaf ear to the Fat Lady’s comments, Harry seeks out the armchair near the fireplace. He’s not yet ready to sleep or sit in bed, going back and forth inside his mind about Riddle, Malfoy, Snape. Death Eaters, danger, his friends. Ginny, Quidditch, winning the Cup. 

It seems like his thoughts only run around in clusters of three lately. That or he’s definitely losing his mind.

Definitely, because the armchair is not empty as he’s absolutely been wishing silently, wholeheartedly, that it would be when he returned. 

“‘Lo,” she yawns long and hard it makes Harry do so too. 

“How are you the only Gryffindor fifth year actually studying for OWLs?” Harry eyes her suspiciously; it’s starting to dawn on him that maybe, just maybe, there’s something else behind Ginny’s erratic sleeping and studying schedule then he would’ve originally thought. 

Ginny shrugs, exhales, “I’ve decided to moonlight as Hermione.”

“That’d be so wrong on too many levels,” Harry laughs and drops on the couch, places a fluffed pillow under his head.

“It’d absolutely give my dear brother the heart attack of his life.”

“Fair. But perhaps you could disguise as Hermione long enough to tell Ron you’re acting the way you are because you like him?” Harry smirks. It’s always easier to see feelings in other people and infinitely more difficult to acknowledge them when they grow inside yourself.

“Ha. First I’d have to tell  _ him _ that he’s acting the way he is because he likes  _ her _ ,” Ginny laughs, her chair pushed back on its hind legs. 

Harry watches her and smiles softly, head rested on the soft pillow, the warmth radiating from the hearth lulling him into a gentle sleep.

He hears Ginny’s soft tone as his eyes slowly close, a sudden flowery scent drifting over him.

“Alright, Harry?”

He figures he’s alright and he’ll be alright. Right now, he feels at peace with the world and diving fast into an endless slumber.

* * *

They train hard in spite of the cold crisp January wind, cheeks rosy and voices a shuddered croak as the Quaffle flies left to right, back and forth on the ice glazed pitch. Winter in Scotland has never been forgiving but that would never be enough to squander the Gryffindor Team’s drive to win the Cup (in all fairness, Oliver Wood might have a heart attack and drop dead if that’s all it took to defeat the team).

Practice is good, mostly, and Harry’s rather satisfied with the team’s progress. Ginny’s play is superb as always and even Ron manages to keep up a constant streak and a normal amount of bruised ego for a sixteen year old. 

Still, “mostly satisfied” is only that: mostly. Harry doesn’t want to say that Dean’s not a promising player, but he’d surely do better if he’d kept his attention on the actual Chasing and not on the...Chaser. His constant need to ensure that Ginny’s registering his every above average throw of the Quaffle, his swerves, his feints is slowly but surely getting on Harry’s last nerve - so much so that he’s come very close to banning talking on the pitch today.

Harry does try to avoid being a prat when he’s aware of it so he settled for imagining Dean get dumped by Ginny in more than twenty ways instead.

After breakfast, his mind goes back to the other night and consequently to Ginny. Why is she always the last one in the Common Room? She does say she’s alright and studying, but she’d also stated she was alright four years ago.

Harry shudders at the thought and makes a mental note to talk to her next time he finds her hiding or studying or whatever else she’s actually doing.

It doesn’t come exactly as a surprise that the opportunity presents itself on the very next night. 

Unable to quieten his mind enough to fall asleep, Harry decides to retreat into the Common Room, by the fire, with the Prince to keep him company. As he climbs down the stairs, his eyes catch a glimpse of red hair surrounded by piles of books and a frown nestled on her forehead.

“Not a fan of repeating myself, but you sure you’re alright?” Harry raises an eyebrow as he drags a chair next to her.

“Yeah, fine, just studying. OWLs. Can’t concentrate much during the day,” Ginny sighs, her eyes fixed on the textbook.

“Need help?”

“Dunno,” she pauses, frowning harder. “Not even sure I need these - I mean, I know I don’t want to be some Ministry prat like Percy. No offence,” Ginny quickly swerves, referring to Harry’s new found ambition of becoming an Auror.

He laughs, “None taken.”

There’s silence between them, the creaking of the wood in the hearth the only sound.

“Gin,” Harry starts after a moment, “You know if there’s anything troubling you, you can always talk to me, right? Promise not to tell Ron.”

She looks at him long and hard before smiling genuinely, “Thanks, Harry.”

“It’s just - I, eh, it’s me,” Ginny sighs after another beat and closes her eyes, forlorn. “I can’t quite make up my mind on some things and I don’t know what to think or how should I feel. It’s all very...confusing, I guess.”

Harry looks at her, surprised, as she hides her face behind her hands. It is very unlike the Ginny he’s come to know over the past couple of years to look so lost and muddled. Very unlike her indeed.

“Know what,” Harry tries to smile, an arm sneaking around her shoulders in spite of his beating heart; he wants to offer her comfort, ease her mind. “I feel like that mostly every day and somehow I’m still here today, with you, despite blood thirsty criminals and ten long years of seeing the Dursleys daily.”

He tries to make light of it, act as if he’s not scared at all or desperate to finally have a normal, boring life. 

“Sometimes I reckon that even getting out of bed every day is an act of bravery,” Harry scratches his head with the other hand, musses his hair.

“Oh, Harry,” Ginny’s voice comes out strangled and she raises her palm to caress his cheek, her eyes boring into his.

“I’m here,” Harry whispers and takes her hand, covers it with his as it rests against his wind-chapped skin. 

With a heartbreaking sob, Ginny drops into Harry’s chest, letting out everything she’d been bottling up. He doesn’t say a word, but keeps rubbing her back in soft circles, his chin rested atop her head. He doesn’t want to say that it’s alright or that it’ll be; frankly, he can’t promise that. But what he can promise is this:

“I’ll always be here for you, Ginny. No matter what.”

“You’re always here for all of us, Harry. It’s unfair to carry the burden on your own,” she sobs into his chest, her fingers tugging at his shirt, her hair pooling over her back, the sides of her face, tickling at his arms.

Before Harry can say anything or even begin to formulate an answer, the portrait door swings furiously open and in comes Hermione, her eyes red, her cheeks stained with tears.

Not a particularly happy night for soul searching, Harry thinks.

“Oh, I’m -,” Hermione stops suddenly, acknowledging she’s not fully alone. “I was in the library, studying,” she quickly says and makes her way towards the stairs, climbs two at a time.

Another moment passes before it dawns on Harry what they’re currently doing and he doesn’t dare say another word or breathe. 

“I should, ah,” Ginny swallows hard as she extracts herself from Harry’s arms. “I should probably call it a day.”

She pats down her messy hair, drags her sleeve across her face to wipe all remaining tears and gets up to quickly stack her books inside the bag.

“Here, I’ll help,” Harry offers and hastily stumbles to help her.

Their hands bump into each other as they silently clear the table, their gaze firmly glued to the floor. Harry’s heart is in his throat as he hands Ginny her bags and quite awkwardly pats her on the shoulder before she clumsily leaves with a “Bye, Harry.”

He’s left alone in the middle of the Common Room, wondering what he’s done and urging himself not to hope what he’s starting to hope: that maybe, just maybe, there’s two of them tormenting themselves; that maybe he’s not as alone as he thought.


	6. February

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> writing block isn't fun when you're supposed to publish on a schedule, that much i can tell you.
> 
> please enjoy - we've listened to you all and sprinkled in some good ol' fluff :)

He only wants to talk to her. He wants it so badly, can’t they see how much he needs it? 

Can’t they move out of his way? There are so many of them flooding the corridors, all of Hogwarts at once, keeping him away from her.

And Ginny’s calling him from the other end of the corridor, and Harry tries so very hard to remember the ‘three Ds’ of Apparition and magically transport himself to her, so hard that his scar prickles and Hermione tuts and tells him he should have paid better attention to Twycross the day before. 

But Hermione turns into Ginny in the time it takes him to blink and now they are in the Common Room, lounging on the couch, blissfully alone. She is maddeningly close to him and Harry wants to kiss her like he’s never wanted anything in his life. 

His lips are nearly onto hers, their arms and legs tangled together, her robes disappearing on their own -

“Harry James Potter, what are you doing to my daughter?” Mrs Weasley screams from the fireplace, her face screwed with rage.

Harry wants to say he did nothing, they were doing nothing, but Ron Apparates over them, making himself cosy on the couch between Harry and Ginny.

“How’s your three Ds, mate? Mine are bloody brilliant! You’ll never Apparate until you accept the D,” Ron is telling him smugly.

“Yes, how _ is _ your D, Harry?” Ginny’s giggling, now irritatingly overdressed, a pair of Hagrid’s fluffy earmuffs on her head and what looks like Ron’s Yule Ball ensemble of frilly robes on her.

“You’ll never see my daughter naked!” Mrs Weasley wags her finger in Harry’s face, shouting at him with a hand on Ginny’s shoulder, as Ron keeps talking about Apparition and Ginny laughs so hard she starts crying.

“Your D, Harry, your D,” Ginny dissolves into another fit of laughter, pointing a finger at his lap.

Before Harry could look down and feel even more mortified, if that’s even possible, something hard hits his head.

Suddenly and confusingly, Harry wakes up, his eyes losing focus as he rubs at the side of his rumpled head.

“Mate, you keep waking me up,” Ron grumbles, leaning over him to retrieve his pillow and plopping right back into his bed.

Harry swallows hard and privately wonders whether he’d let anyone in on what his dream was about, then turns on his side and concentrates on drifting back to sleep - sans mad dreams this time if anyone cares even remotely for his sanity.

* * *

To Harry, it feels like the month drags on without ever ending. Quite frankly, he feels personally attacked by all the dating invitations flying about, people confessing their love to each other, holding hands and playing footsie under the breakfast table. Ugh, gross.

It’s hard enough that no one believes him yet whenever he’s bringing up Malfoy and his evilness, not even after Harry’d told them what that sleazeball was bragging about to Crabe, for crying out loud. Not even the Prince, who seemed to have an answer to anything and was definitely Harry’s mental and emotional comfort lately, held a solution to Harry’s small not-being-taken-seriously problem. 

And then there’s Ginny: walking out of the locker room shower only wrapped in a towel, stretching in her Quidditch gear, playing with her hair while she studies. It’s like she knows what she’s doing to him but pretends she doesn’t.

But how can she not know? It’s a miracle Ron hasn’t noticed yet, the little flirty jokes swapped between Harry and Ginny during practice, his eyes glued to her as she laughs loudly and shows off her prowess on the broom, his intense, burning blush when they have to change back into their robes and he tries incredibly hard not to peek over at her.

Harry actually feels like a lascivious old man most of the times or whenever he catches himself staring intently at her bum when she flies or walks or simply exists.

Is this really a life worth living?

Harry’s really tired of self-pity, but then again what else can a bloke in his place do? He’s stuck in limbo with his feelings as long as Ginny’s still with Dean. And who knows if she’ll still like him when she’ll stop being with Dean anyway?

Perhaps it’s better to keep living in limbo with the small amounts he gets from her.

Harry rolls his eyes at himself, takes one last look over his shoulder at Ginny and Demelza giggling together, and speeds up towards the castle. It’s cold and windy and he hates everything.

* * *

The fluff and tooth-rotting sweetness that fills the air all day gives Harry enough of a headache and a new, unhealthy dose of self-loathing to determine him to hide in a deserted classroom in a desperate attempt to escape. 

Hermione, clever as always, had disappeared from the very first hours of the morning, Harry noticed earlier with a twinge of envy. He should’ve done the same, absolutely.

Because, you see, everywhere Harry looked today he could only see cuddly couples, see them crowding the Common Room and quite frankly cavorting all over the castle. It drove him mad.

And, to top it all off, his best mate had joined in the whole frisky business. Harry had spent his entire day feeling nothing but disdain for Ron and his fickle ways so he has a mind to communicate the feeling to his friend as soon as the opportunity arises. Just he waits, it’ll be McGonagall level brutal, Harry reckons.

Now Harry hides, alone, counting down the final hours of Valentine’s Day. He figures he’d be safe once the clock strikes midnight and the nasty spells fades away (because no doubt it’s a spell, some kind of enchantment; normal people don’t kiss all day, do they?) and then he can walk back into the world without the fear of stumbling upon a certain someone, her face glued to the face of an absolute prick.

Harry growls a bit at the thought.

“Ron told me you went hiding.”

Harry’s head snaps so fast he definitely hears something crack. 

“I’m doing a very good job at it, I see.” He molds his voice into a dry tone, but can’t hold back the grin that spreads across his face as his heartbeat picks up. He wasn’t expecting this certain someone to come looking for him, especially since his current pastime activity involved pain-inducing scenarios of varying degrees where Ginny and Dean were - erm, couple-y and Harry pretended he’s unaffected.

So unaffected he feels he might just jump and kiss her simply because she isn’t with Dean at the moment, because she’s thinking about him, Harry - at least enough to come looking.

Still, he keeps his head and holds still, back pressed to the stone wall, knees to his chest on the cold, hard floor.

“Nah, it’s just me who’s very clever,” Ginny grins widely as she crouches next to him, pressing her back to the wall and her shoulder into his. “So what’s up with you, sad face?”

Harry scoffs playfully, flicks her shoulder. 

“Aren’t you supposed to be doing couple-y stuff?”

“Would you rather I did?” Ginny immediately bites back, her eyes fixed on his, a deep frown on her freckled forehead. 

Harry feels stupid, sheepish as he opens his mouth and lets out a timid _ no _.

Much like a displeased cat, Ginny breathes out a puff of air and turns her head fast enough to lightly smack Harry over the face with her long, red ponytail. 

He wants to apologise, but then decides against it. Somehow, he’s sure it’s not his apology she came after - he doesn’t know what this is about, but it’s not that.

If he’d learned anything over the years of playing Quidditch it’s that the Snitch will eventually turn up if the Seeker stands still and keeps an open eye and their mind alert.

A tense silence falls between them until slowly, gently, Ginny sighs and slides a bit further, lowers her head onto his shoulder. She doesn’t say a word, just sits still, the deep red crown of her hair close to Harry’s blushing cheek. 

Harry finds he can’t do much but swallow. There’s a great many things he’d like to do right now, that much is already clear to him, but she’s Ginny, and she’s got someone, and she’s Ron’s sister, and she might slap him anyway if he tried.

He holds his breath and, with a trembling hand, musters enough courage to touch her hair. Then he waits, completely and terribly afraid she’s about to hex him.

But when Ginny doesn’t, when she simply keeps her head on his shoulder and slides her body so close to his that their thighs touch by their sides, Harry knows he’s living some kind of dream. So he goes on to stroke her hair because he might as well enjoy it before it’s over and he wakes up next to a snoring Ron.

“Harry?” Ginny calls him quietly.

Harry hopes very much she’s not about to shout at him. He keeps softly stroking her hair.

“Hmm?”

Her tone is as soft as her flowery scented hair and Harry feels a bit dizzy.

“Do you still think about Cho?”

“No. Why?”

At first, Harry surprises himself with the answer. He really never thinks about her anymore, does he?

But then again, why would he? The honest truth is they’ve drifted apart before they could ever fall together. Cho was never in his every thought, never possessed every one of his dreams the way Ginny did.

No, he didn’t think about her anymore.

“No reason,” Ginny responds and he can feel her smile. Something warm spreads throughout his chest, melting away his anxiety, calming his troubling thoughts.

From there on the conversation lulls pleasantly to a safer ground as they laugh and comment on Ginny’s childhood stories from the Burrow to Harry’s first year at Hogwarts adventures she’s heard a million times before, but still finds everything funny enough to laugh, giggle, and lightly smack Harry’s thigh. 

Even though he understands nothing else can be shared between them now, Harry feels calm, happy even: her head still rested on his shoulder, their backs pressed against the stone wall, their knees tucked to their chests.

“Hey, Gin?”

“Yeah?”

“Could you,” Harry draws a breath and smirks, “Could you talk me through the process behind the ‘his eyes are as green as a fresh pickled toad’ verse?”

Ginny splutters, pouts and playfully smacks his knees - although, Harry privately notices, her hand lingers there a bit longer.

“Don’t mock my sentiment!”

“Not mocking, promise,” Harry laughs, pressing his cheek atop her head, “I’m actually a great admirer of it.”

“Oh, are you?” She says, dry, and with a great, big harrumph jumps headfirst into a tickling match, mercilessly tickling at Harry’s sides, her flowery scent filling his lungs as they’d laugh and laugh and laugh.

Soon after, another voice tangles with their joyous shrieks: Luna, strolling down the corridors, politely engaged in conversation with the castle’s ghosts. 

“Luna,” Ginny lifts herself from him and calls her friend, much to Harry’s dissatisfaction as he’d been having quite the time of his life with her lounging all over his body in her attempt to win the battle by tickling everywhere.

Harry slaps invisible dust away from his clothes rather to give himself something to do and his mind something else to think about than the feeling of Ginny’s chest over his, her warm thighs, her bum touching his lap.

All feelings hard to forget, indeed.

Harry senses the irony on his own use of the word ‘hard’ and really wants to kick himself.

“Hello,” Luna says brightly.

“Yeah, hi, Luna,” says Harry, trying as much as he can not to sound too bitter.

Luna’s round blue eyes fix each of them for awhile and Harry feels like his mind is being scanned. It makes him very uncomfortable; right now, his thoughts are strictly for him to know and judge.

“You alright, Harry?”

“Oh, yeah,” Ginny answers before he can even think of opening his mouth, a devious grin on her face. “He was a bit under the weather, weren’t you, Harry? But I cheered him up.”

Ginny looks entirely too pleased with herself, her expression daring him to deny what she’d just said.

So Harry simply shakes his head and chuckles, his fingertips brushing unconsciously over her small hand; she gasps, surprised.

Harry knows he’s blushing but takes pride in the fact that her cheeks are tinged pink too. 

Pleasantly their conversation spikes up and drifts towards Luna, her plans, her strange adventures. They spend an hour listening to her eerily describe the quests her father and her have to undertake to find the next fantastic creature. She talks and they listen and it’s all very nice.

From time to time, Ginny’d catch his eye and they’d grin at each other, cosy on the floor of a chilly, empty classroom.

Maybe Valentine’s Day isn’t so bad after all, Harry thinks as they wave goodbye to Luna and saunter side by side to the Gryffindor Common Room. 

Harry’s about to ask her if she’d like to go over their new Quidditch strategy before they call it a night and his hand’s shooting to the back of his head in a kind of nervous gesture he’s lately come to associate with anything that has to do with Ginny.

“Hey, Ginny! Ginny!”

Harry’s mood is irredeemably shattered by Dean’s annoying voice. He’s completely forgotten about him, the stupid git.

“Ginny,” Dean tries again, waving enthusiastically from the other side of the Common Room, face to face with Seamus at a small table. “Here, hey!”

Forlorn and sighing, Ginny makes a gesture that Harry decides to interpret as being sorry that she has to go. So he sighs and watches her start towards Dean and reluctantly sit next to him.

As for him, Harry plops onto the couch, startling a couple of second year girls. They throw him disgusted glances but Harry has none of it; he shrugs and covers his face with a pillow, one leg stretched out on the stringy old couch and the other dangling loose.

He concentrates on the cracking, sizzling sounds of the fire, allows its warmth to comfort him.

He’d been having such a nice couple of hours…

“I’m off to bed, long day,” he hears her speak close to his ear and forgets himself enough to find that the pillow’s been thrown directly into the middle of the hearth.

Immediately, Harry swears loudly and nearly burns his fingers as he retrieves the singed pillow.

“Accio doesn’t work for you anymore?” Ginny laughs.

“Oh, ha ha,” Harry sticks out his tongue and she laughs even harder.

As she calms down, Ginny lightly pats his shoulder and steps away to her dorm room, her giggles sounding beautifully in her wake.

Harry shakes his head, a little dumbfounded, a little bemused and drops into a nearby armchair, once again disturbing the pair of second year girls. He shoots them a small sorry as they walk away muttering.

“Well, that was something.”

Harry’s green eyes follow the dancing flames, their burning lick, and remembers an evening spent talking to Sirius. His heart twists; the memory seems to have been retrieved from such a faraway place, from a different time, like its contains happened to someone else in another life.

The hard truth is, Harry muses and feels his eyes prickling behind closed eyelids, the truth is that he wants to talk to Sirius so, so much. So painfully much. But that’s sadly not possible now, is it, Harry?

“Quick, mate, you need to cover me,” Ron interrupts him as he runs inside, looking exasperated and completely disheveled. 

Harry can do only so much not to snort as he takes notice of his best mate’s rumpled hair, the undone buttons of his shirt, half of it hanging out of his trousers, half still smartly tucked in, the lipstick marks on his neck.

“Running from your girlfriend, eh?”

“Shut up and hide me,” Ron barks, plunging under the couch as a sweet, girly shriek rings throughout the Common Room.

Lavender runs in, looks around excitedly and dashes right back out when she can’t spot Ron. Bullet dodged.

“Aha, alright, I hide you but what’s in it for me?” Harry crouches down and asks when the coast is once again clear.

Ron looks at him like he’s suddenly turned insane. 

“Fuckin’ hell, Harry, I’m about to get massacred!”

Harry can’t lie, he’s enjoying it more than he should.

“Well, I just don’t see how that’s my problem,” he says, adopting something close to Percy’s pompous tone as he pushes his glasses back up his nose.

“Hello, we’re best mates, remember?” 

Harry tries not to break character as Ron’s face becomes a beautiful display of all the stages of horror and desperation. 

“Yeah, but you have to understand I’m risking Hermione’s wrath to help you. She might whack me with _ Hogwarts, A History _.”

“I’ll whack you with my own fist right here if you don’t - look, there’s no time for bloody negotiations!”

“Is that right? Then how about I get one free pass where I do something and you can’t get mad or question it?”

“What are you on about?”

“Just nod and be done with it,” Harry says as he crosses his arms, fully knowing he’s on dangerous ground.

“Alright, alright, now will you give me that damn Cloak?”

“No need, she’s already gone,” Harry shrugs, smug and finally bursts into laughter at Ron’s harassed expression.

He helps Ron get up and quickly checks that Lavender is indeed still out of sight.

As much as he wants to ask Ron why in the name of all things holy he doesn’t break things off with her, Harry decides to keep it to himself this time. When he draws the line, he can’t find any good reason why he doesn’t just tell Ginny how he feels either.

“Hey, mate?” Ron quietly asks as they’re climbing the stairs to the sixth year boys’ dorm and Harry doesn’t miss the blush creeping up his neck to the tips of his ears. “Have you - erm, have you seen Hermione today?”

In his heart, Harry’s content to acknowledge once again that, at the very least, he’s not the only dumb, besotted fool.


	7. March

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hoping very much you'll love this chapter as hard as we do <3 we're getting there, folks!

After Ron’s dung heap of a birthday, Harry really is inclined to feel sorry for his best mate and definitely to be grateful he’s not dead - in that way he’ll probably never actually say without a few belts of firewhiskey and maybe a bit of Veritaserum. And not because of any macho preening idiocy but just because Harry’s not particularly a fan of sharing feelings with  _ anyone _ . If he can blame the Dursleys for anything…

It’s all beside the point though - Ron’s his stupid best mate and he’s glad he’s still alive to fill the role but the whole post-poisoning drama is driving Harry batty. First, the decrease in Ron in Harry’s daily life has been replaced by the obnoxia of McLaggen’s repeated and increasingly detailed pleas, arguments, and demands to take his ‘rightful’ place as Gryffindor’s Keeper. Which is grating enough without ‘Lav-Lav’ attempting to supplement her boyfriend’s usual emotional support with Harry’s admittedly reluctant and bare responses.

He’d maybe be willing to make an attempt at being moderately helpful or at least not  _ rude _ , but between the conflicting stresses of classes, Quidditch, lessons with Dumbledore, and figuring out whatever the hell Malfoy’s up to - Harry’s patience is stretched  _ quite  _ thin.

Not only is everyone creating drama that really all comes back down to romance in one way or another, but Harry’s life remains woefully intense with none of the snogging related benefits. And his increasingly creative subconscious is a double edged sword in all of this - waking up in the aftermath is simultaneously disappointing and terrifying.

Who knows if he’s a sleep talker and who knows if Dean’s suddenly a light sleeper. One of these days he’s going to wake up with Dean and Seamus standing over him ready to beat Voldemort to offing him.

Which all leads to Harry stalking through the halls not unlike a certain former Potions Master and the comparison only puts Harry in a worse mood.

On one such stalk through the castle, he finds himself no longer alone in his brooding when Ginny slips up next to him as he breaches the entry hall and reaches the sunlit grounds.

She nudges him with her elbow and tilts her head back to drink in the warm afternoon. “So mysterious and brooding lately - half of Hogwarts thinks you’re secretly in love with Ron and the other half doesn’t give a shit who you fancy because they want to snog you ‘til their lips fall off.”

Harry grunts in response.

“That’s no way to respond to my update - mysterious only covers so much arsehole activity.”

Ginny comes to a halt as they reach the bank of the Great Lake and grips his arm. “What the - when are you going to stop acting like a jerk?”

Scowling, Harry drops into the swaying grasses and rips up a couple of handfuls by the roots. “Nobody’s making you hang about.”

“Your entire life is a distress signal at the mo’ Harry - I wouldn’t be a good friend if I let you keep acting like a prat.”

“So I’m a prat now - you’re really tops at giving a pep talk, Ginny.”

Ginny’s satchel falls to the ground with a thud and she follows after, lying down in the grass at Harry’s side. He’s a bit thrown, honestly, because he really  _ is  _ acting like a prat, now that she mentions it. And though he doesn’t quite want to admit it aloud yet, Ginny’s well within her rights to storm off and have a brooding session of her own. 

Instead, she sighs and tucks her arms beneath her head. “I’ve learned your interest is best garnered with a few choice swipes at your carefully crafted view of yourself.”

Blowing out a deep breath, Harry mimics Ginny’s action and drops back to the grass, spring and freshness sharpening the air around him. It feels safe, being hidden away like this, and he finds the words spilling from his lips before he can stop or even consider the results.

“Everything’s just a bit shit lately. Not to make everything about me,” Harry pauses to shove Ginny when she snorts, “But between Ron almost dying in front of me and Lavender torturing me for information and Cormac being a cocky ass - ”

“Don’t get me started on that idiot,” Ginny mutters.

“And plus - well, I’m me.”

“So you must have some super secret something or other brewing alongside all this teen angst.”

“Of course.”

Harry pushes his glasses up onto his forehead and leaves his forearm draped over his eyes. “Plus when you’ve got your own internal frustration piling up about everything including fancying - ”

And right about there, his self-preservation instincts kick back in and he realizes he almost just moaned to Ginny about the trouble of fancying her secretly and as far as he knows about three years too late for some requited feelings.

Oh hell. Just add it to his angst pile of life.

It’s quiet for a beat or two between them as Harry’s sentence dies unfinished and Ginny probably contemplates dumping him in the Lake so the squid can end him once and for all. But when she does break the silence it’s with a low, steady voice. That voice he’s come to associate with so many feelings that sound like conflicts but just make up the mosaic that is Ginny Weasley. She’s a comfort, a friend, a tease, cheeky, kind, loyal, braver than most - and currently offering some sort of response he’s missed almost entirely.

“ - and anyway, I know it feels like you’re the only one with all these mixed up parts of your life crashing down around you,” her pinky brushes the side of his hand, “And you certainly have more drama than most - especially with Ron and Hermione for best mates - but you’re not weird or strange or broken. I think. Well, Mum says it’s just part of growing up.”

Harry hums. “You think she’s right?”

“Who would question Molly Weasley?”

“I’m the Boy Who Lived,” Harry chuckles.

“Not for long if you back talk Mum.”

* * *

Harry slumps into the 6th Year Boys’ Dorm and falls back against the door with a sigh which turns from completely dejected to mostly dejected and slightly relieved. “All alone?”

Ron grunts. “Aye - good thing. I’m still recovering.”

“My headache is definitely going to cut my Dean and Seamus clucking session patience,” Harry agrees as he deposits his things in his trunk. It’s a bit of a messy clean up but once the top drops down it’s out of sight and he honestly can’t summon up the motivation to give a rat’s arse. Especially with lingering daydreams of Ginny fawning over his prone body, wondering aloud why she chose  _ Dean  _ and let Harry nearly die without snogging him to death. And instead leaving him to the cold, cruel death by bludger.

When Harry emerges from daydream take two, Ron’s looking at him half expectant, half confused, and Harry decides to milk the head injury as long as possible. He’s paying the price with a splitting headache at the base of his skull so at this point excuses are earned. “Sorry mate, say it again? Brain’s still a bit wobbly.”

“Ah, hell with it. I dunno if I can take one more gossipy discussion of who’s dating who and whether they’re  _ invested  _ and if it’s  _ long term  _ and whatever other shit manages to come up.”

“At least  _ you  _ could fake sleeping through Lav Lav without Pomfrey thinking you’ve got narcolepsy.”

Ron snorts and pushes up on his elbows. “She’s a persistent thing, eh?”

Harry’s on a roll now and he can’t quite stop himself before his grumbles continue. “And then Dean can’t seem to decide between  _ bragging  _ like an asshole and whining like a little baby because Ginny doesn’t powder his bum.”

“She better not be anywhere near his bum,” Ron grunts, “Care for a game of chess? I could use a good violent outlet.”

Before Harry answers, Ron’s already crawling to the foot of his bed and rustling around for his beat up chess board. Soon enough he’s placing the chipped pieces on the squares while Harry lingers in the doorway. “Can I put on pajamas first?”

“Slip into something comfortable for me, Potter,” Ron says with a teasing wink. Harry grabs a pillow and tosses it in his face. 

“Stuff it.”

“_You_ _send me_,” Ron moans dramatically, and when Harry slams the loo door behind him, Ron calls, “And bring something for a snack before you come over here.”

“Eff off, Ron.”

“I’m peckish and we all know you hoard food.”

When Harry reemerges from the bathroom he shoves his robes in with the rest of his dirty laundry and grabs a few handfuls of candy from his apparently not-so-secret stash. “What’s your poison.”

“Too bloody soon,” Ron laughs, snatching a licorice wand, “So Dean and Ginny? Anything while I was out of it?”

“She’ll be ticked at me if I act informant on her,” Harry says, gesturing one of his pawns forward.

Ron orders his pawn two spaces ahead and sighs, “Since when does she rank over best mate privileges?”

“I dunno - probably since I saw her bat bogey hex live and in person.”

“Baby.”

* * *

Harry’s heart nearly jumps out of its cage when he sneakily walks out of the Room of Requirement and is about to turn the first corner. 

“Ginny!” He mostly blurts out, hand over his heart and heaving. He surely wasn’t expecting to bump into anyone, let alone a lone, wandering Ginny Weasley.

She looks just as surprised, but mostly amused, a trait evident on all Weasleys. Even Percy on his better days.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost. That bludger to the head must’ve done things to you, eh, Harry?”

Yes, but the grin on your face does a lot more and entirely different things to me, Harry’d like to say but doesn’t. Impromptu snogging in the corridors  _ is _ frowned upon, he remembers with a slight cringe. Nothing in the world that can erase the memory of Ron’s red, angry face from his mind, though.

“I was only -”

But he stops mid-sentence. Can he tell her? Should he tell her about the cabinet and Malfoy and Snape? Ginny would never be flippant about it, right? Or would she?

To his great surprise, her cheeks start to redden all the way up to her forehead, her deep brown eyes suddenly averting his gaze.

“Did I - erm, did I interrupt...anything?” Ginny stammers, teeth sinking into her bottom lip.

“What?” Harry’s gaze blurs out for a moment before something akin to horror washes over him. “No, no, no! Nothing like that! It’s - erm, it’s Dumbledore, really. New task from Dumbledore, yeah. That’s right, a new and insanely difficult new task from Dumbledore that I cannot and will not speak about.”

Harry finds himself panting at the end of his little speech, cold sweat dripping from his temples to his armpits as Ginny stares at him and blinks before that warm, hearty laughter erupts from her throat and she doubles over. On his part, well, Harry’s never wanted anything more than to simply disappear from the face of the earth.  _ Poof _ , and all his troubles would go away.

“Didn’t mean to laugh,” she apologises, fingers wiping small tears from under her eyelids.

“No, no, by all means knock yourself out.”

Harry really tries to sound dignified. He pushes his round specs back onto his nose, combs his wild hair with one hand and tugs at the creases in his robe with the other, suddenly very much self-aware.

“Oh, wow. That was something,” Ginny finally seems to recover, her back leaning against the cold stone wall. “Honestly, Harry, if you were there alone or with someone -”

_ Please don’t say something even remotely...suggesting. _

“ - doing whatever everyone is doing, it’s completely alright, really. Despite what Ron was preaching before he turned into a leech and became perpetually glued to Lavender’s lips,” she finishes her sentence with a bit of a frown and Harry feels like he’s about to faint.

The last thing he wants is for Ginny to think he’s fooling around with someone around the castle. Or even worse, that he’s - erm, doing it to himself and going to such great lengths to do so that he hides behind magic doors instead of casting Muffliato in the middle of the night like any other sane teenager.

“Thanks for the advice, Ginny, but it’s really not necessary.”

“Oh. Alright, then.”

She looks a bit forlorn and Harry realises he must have been a prat again.

“I don’t have anybody to snog in secret, I mean,” he quickly amends. Damn, that crease between her eyebrows truly throws him into guilt-trips like nothing else, eh?

Ginny’s lips stretch into a small smile, her eyes a little sheepish as she searches for his own. “You’re not missing out on much, promise.”

“I take it Dean isn’t as good as he brags, then?”

“He  _ what _ ?”

“What’s said in the boys’ dorm must stay in the boys’ dorm.”

“Harry James Potter, you tell me what that git is saying about me to you lot right now, or -”

“Or?”

“Or I’ll tell Romilda Vane you confessed your love for her to me.”

“Ooh, that’s beneath the belt, Gin. Where’s the sportswoman in you?”

“I put her on hold. She’s not great with interrogation tactics.”

Ginny looks entirely too smug for her own good because Harry feels like leaning in and kissing her silly. In fact, at one point in their passionate banter they kind of, sort of inched closer to each other - otherwise, Harry has no idea how to explain the fact that she’s so close to him he can taste the sweetness of her breath.

They both glare at each other until one of them gives in and into laughter, the echo of their combined mirth reverberating throughout the corridors. But they don’t care, not much and not right now. 

Right now, they’re two teenagers having fun, enjoying each other’s company. Right now, they’re Harry and Ginny being normal and being friends.

Harry feels warm inside and smiles widely. Without knowing, without even realising, Ginny’s crept into his heart little by little until she’s come to mean more to him than he could ever find words to describe. He’s come to rely on her and that’s a lot to him.

“Honestly, Gin, if Dean’s giving you any trouble, just tell me and I promise I’ll take care of it,” Harry grins as they jump down the stairs two by two to the Great Hall.

“That’s very chivalrous of you, Harry.”

He can feel her roll her eyes though her tone stays amused.

“I won’t even tell Ron, promise.”

“You won’t have to. If anyone’s dumb enough to play me dirty, I’ll make sure everyone from the First Years to Moaning Myrtle finds out,” Ginny winks and Harry nearly misses a step. 

“That mostly renders your six brothers plus me useless, though,” he laughs, now more careful with the stairs. No need breaking his neck again when he’s only recently been dismissed from the hospital.

“Oh, no. Did mean ol’ Ginny threaten your masculinity?” She pouts as her finger jabs into his chest and Harry laughs.

“You have to turn everything into a competition, eh?”

“Absolutely. Also, last one at the dinner table is a smelly loser!” Ginny sticks out her tongue and darts away so fast Harry’s left blinking in her wake.

A great, big grin nestles on his face and Harry shakes his head before he pelts right after her, taking the steps four at a time and laughing as she splutters like an angry cat when he dashes ahead of her. He’s still the fastest runner and he’ll make sure that never changes. Seeing her slightly annoyed, mostly amused face, that competition loving flame in her eyes and that blazing, scorching look on her face - that alone gives Harry enough pleasure and charges him with enough courage he honestly feels like he can conquer death. 

* * *

Harry hopes the absolute best for his two best mates when he waves them goodbye to their Apparition lesson in Hogsmeade because, who knows, maybe they can really hold in the snappy banter and use their lips for something that’d shut them up for awhile once they actually start doing it. And also cut that sexual tension that’s been growing over the years right down to nil, Harry likes to tell himself.

Bumping into Tonks doesn’t help him either but merely charges him with renewed guilt. It’s hard enough waking up and realising there’s no Sirius and that there never will be, but to actually see people grieving...He knows he’s the only one to blame.

Not to mention his fourth lesson with Dumbledore and the brand new incursion into the life and times of Tom Riddle. Somehow it doesn’t get easier, no matter how many times he goes back into Riddle’s past, no matter how hard he tries to tell himself that if he’d only managed to understand him…

Harry feels something disgusting crawling underneath his skin after those lessons and he’s almost sure it’s not only in his head.

And Malfoy. And the Room of Requirement. 

And the Prince teaching him increasingly dangerous spells (even though he’d never admit he considers them dangerous for fear that Hermione might hear and go on her little ‘told you so’ routine).

So, just like a perfect cycle, Harry finds himself finishing the first month of Spring precisely like he started it: drowning in a right well of angst and being broody. Right until a fuming Ginny slams the door to his compartment, that is.

“What’s got your pants in a twist?” Harry raises one eyebrow as his eyes follow Ginny from behind round specs. She sways for a moment in the middle of the compartment, leaning into the movements of the fast running train, before she decides to plop down, frowning and pouting opposite him.

Ginny simply grunts in response and Harry knows it’d be useless to push her. She’ll tell him when she’s ready anyway and he’s got a nasty feeling it’s got to do with Dean. 

Maybe it isn’t the best option to find out right now - he might stroll into Dean’s compartment and casually strangle him if indeed it was him who upset her, Harry privately reckons. 

“You never told me how a toaster works,” Ginny says after a beat, her eyes glued to the green outside the window. “Care to explain now?”

Harry poorly muffles a chuckle with a fake coughing fit and dives right into explaining the intricacies of obtaining fresh toast the Muggle way. Fortunately, it keeps them occupied for more than he’d hoped and it’s really nice talking to her like that.

But when her questions start spiralling towards more technical stuff than Harry’s ever known or even dreamed of knowing, he simply starts making things up, one more ridiculously fantastic than the other. Obviously, Ginny’s no fool as her  _ aha _ s and  _ oh really _ s sound dryer and dryer.

At least they share a good laugh when Ron and Hermione return from their Prefect duties and Ron, being his father’s son, is suddenly gullible enough to believe there are actual little people hiding inside a TV playing the same movie over and over again “like actors in a play.”

The compartment shakes with their laughter as the train rolls out of Scotland and Harry feels so much lighter, almost happy sitting there with the four people he cares most about in the world.

Quite frankly, Easter at the Burrow sounds pretty good to Harry now and, if he’s being entirely honest, he can already smell Mrs Weasley’s treacle tart and shepherd's pie warm and waiting for them on the old wooden table.


	8. April

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we're one chapter closer to YOU KNOW WHAT guyssss

After Ron and Harry’s respective failures in apparition and persuading the ever reluctant Slughorn it feels as though they’re destined for a sorry evening spent moping. Until Hermione pipes up with her small critique of Twycross and suddenly they’re lost in that heady silliness of unstoppable shit-talking that mends the ailing heart. It’s always fun, but somehow Hermione’s added eyerolls and high-class vocabulary offer an extra bit of _ umph _to the whole thing. 

Harry swipes at the tears running down his cheeks while Hermione leads the way to the Great Hall. Ron tosses his arm around Harry’s shoulder. “She’s somethin’ when she’s all riled up, eh?”

“Er - sure?”

“Gets that _ look _ \- then does something amazing and barmy like sticking Rita in a jar,” Ron shakes his head, blue eyes going all dreamy, “S’ times like these I see where her crazy Gryffindor streak comes in.”

Biting back a grin, Harry silently wishes a certain Gryffindor Chaser wasn’t missing this and nods along with Ron. “Gryffindor streak?”

“Yeah, everybody’s got one,” Ron says while Hermione guides them towards a place at the tables, “Know what I mean, Hermione?”

Inwardly, Harry wonders whether telling Hermione she’s great ‘cause she’s barmy is a good idea. But then Ron surprises him, “Y’know how you’ve got that brave, loyal thing where you’ll mess up anybody who crosses your friends?”

Hermione flushes, “I-”

“Well my theory’s that everybody’s got one of those - it’s their crazy unstoppable _ Gryffindor _thing.”

Harry’s really getting close to excusing himself when she pats at her curls and licks her lips. “Those aren’t exclusively Gryffindor traits - I sometimes wonder about the sorting process altogether,” she pauses, “But I - that’s very sweet Ron. And I do understand the sentiment. Harry’s would be ‘obsessive with an inability to exercise any sort of impulse control.’”

Unable to resist, which does lend some credibility to Hermione’s proclamation, Harry grabs a slice of crusty bread and gestures toward Ron, “What about King Weasley over here?”

“Brave idiot with no sense of self preservation,” Hermione grumbles. Ron’s ears grow red.

Ginny’s arrival is only indicated moments before she actually turns up at Harry’s shoulder, and he sounds a bit creepy because he _ smells _her first. “Hey, Gin.”

She rests one hand on his shoulder and he _ might _almost faint. Ginny throws one leg over the bench and rests her elbow on the table. “Hi all, what’s up here?”

Harry focuses on buttering his roll carefully and answers, “Well, see, Ron has this theory.”

“Never a good thing to hear from a Weasley.”

Hermione laughs and Ron scoffs, “All I _ said _ was that I believe every Gryffindor has their Gryffindor _ streak _. That thing that’s just a little bit wild.”

“Sounds like a weird pick up line,” Ginny murmurs to Harry. He buries his chuckle in a mouthful of mashed potatoes. Then for the group at large she asks, “Well, what’s mine?”

“Zero impulse control and a wicked temper,” Hermione supplies easily. 

“You’re just reusing one of mine,” Harry accuses, slanting his knife at Hermione, gravy dripping from the edge.

Ron snickers and shares a glance with Hermione - maybe Ginny’s right about the pick up - and says, “You’re forgetting Hermione and I found you two in your little attempt at surfing brooms over the summer.”

Winking at Harry, Ginny adds, “She’s right anyway, I’m very fiery.”

Then she proceeds to swipe his buttered roll and take a mouthful of a bite. “So what brought this little philosophical discussion up?”

Once they give the basics on Twycross’ _ obnoxious _Percy-esque antics that afternoon, Ginny wholeheartedly agrees and joins in their abuse without hesitation.

Ron grabs his pumpkin juice and raises it in salute, “Your loyalty is valued.”

“I’m the only one who’s allowed to act superior to you,” Ginny says, indignant.

And when Harry snickers, Ginny adds, “Well Hermione too, but she’s a given.”

That earns her an eyeroll from Hermione, though she does laugh along with the rest of the foursome. 

Harry can’t help but bask in how _ easy _ it is, how perfect it feels, just the four of them. So when Ginny rises and says she’s going to meet up with Dean, he can’t really trust his judgement that she seems unhappy at the prospect.

He’s so caught up he nearly misses Hermione’s mutterings about Weasleys needing to ‘take their love lives in hand.’

* * *

Operating under Felix Felicis is a heady sort of feeling and even after the effects are worn off, Harry feels like he’s riding high. Until his emergency meeting with Dumbledore, which is certainly serious but doesn’t deflate him - it’s more like a sense of focus settles in and Harry feels like he finally has _direction_. For so much of his life at Hogwarts, he’s been fumbling his way along to trying to stop various antagonists all connected to Voldemort. And now he’s closing in on what it’s all really about. 

It’s a small relief to know he’s been on the path to stopping _ this _since second year. The part that’s still somewhat foggy is all Dumbledore’s poetics about Harry’s ability to love. Odd and confusing as it was, Harry’s worried about becoming like Voldemort since seeing snippets of Voldemort’s life as a normal wizard - relatively - at Hogwarts, reading his diary, the visions that feel more real each time, and being told so plainly that he’s different is comforting in a way.

And lately, things have stirred in him that are more than simple infatuation, feelings he doesn’t quite feel ready to name. But they’re strong enough, powerful enough, that he feels just a _ bit _of that strength, the tether Dumbledore seems so sure of. 

It’s hard to sort through his feelings when he hears that Dean and Ginny are no longer together, even harder when Hermione slyly underlines she’s the one who’s ended it. Sure, it’s easy peasy to instantly know what he’s feeling about Ron and Lavender breaking up (a pat on the back and a ‘good riddance’ might have been involved), but with Ginny...eh, that’s a whole other business.

Is he delighted? Yes. Is he relieved? You’d bet. But does this finally make things less complicated? Not in the slightest.

It’s not like he can suddenly kiss her in the middle of the Common Room now that she’s single, right?

The pang of guilt at his Ginny-themed thoughts lessens somewhat after Hermione’s proclamation during Charms. His Ron-related issues certainly remain but with Dean out of the picture, Harry’s really hoping she’s not too upset about the whole thing. Maybe it was all her idea…he has some fairly detailed daydreams where Ginny realized she couldn’t find a match for Harry’s glorious _ manliness _anywhere else. He found himself wondering if he’d been able to replicate even an ounce of Sirius’ coolness. That maybe it’d combine with his relatively superior Quidditch skills and outweigh what Ron terms his ‘specky git’ image.

Ugh. Ron.

* * *

Harry’s stirring in bed, kicking the sheets to the side then tugging them back again: it’s that late April weather when you’re not quite chilly but it doesn’t feel right sleeping without your covers either. 

Quidditch strategies and players (read: player, girl) with flaming red hair buzz loudly through his thoughts as he wills his mind to just shut down, just go to sleep already.

“Reckon all that feminist talk of independence and shit was just her overcompensating for being a bit easy at first.”

Harry’s eyes pop open and frankly there’s a high possibility the same has happened to a vein on his temple if Dean is talking about who Harry thinks he’s talking, the rotten bastard, the bloody git, the -

“Shush, mate, one of her many brothers might hear you,” Seamus laughs annoyingly and Harry’s one step closer to jumping from behind his drawn curtains and knocking the wind out of them in a surprise attack he promises they’d never be able to forget.

Because Ron might be wandering about Merlin knows where but him, Harry, he’s right there, listening, biding his time.

“Yeah, well, they’d better. I was bloody pissed when Ron threw a temper tantrum when they walked in on us snogging but now I take it back. He was right.”

Prick. Nobody put a wand to his head and forced him to kiss Ginny.

“Wow, you sure are salty,” Seamus laughs again and it sounds like Dean scoffs.

“She dumped me because I tried to help her through the bloody portrait hole, mate. She’s mental, that one, I tell you. First I said alright, she didn’t want to go further than some touches and some snogging, whatever, I said I’d give her time. But blue balls _ and _ snapping at me all the time for nothing? Bit too much, don’t you reckon?”

Harry nearly rips the curtains as he violently draws them open, eyes bulging and ready to throttle Dean. Or he’d be if he could see anything - bugger his poor eyesight and bugger his Gryffindor temper, jumping into battle without his glasses.

But Ron is quicker than him, appearing next to Dean in a heartbeat and gripping him by the collar of his robes. Harry doesn’t really know when exactly Ron walked through the door but, judging from his similar reaction, he’d surely been there for the whole blue balls bit.

“I _ know _ you’re not talking about my sister like that,” Ron growls dangerously, livid, his grip tighter.

“Get off me,” Dean splutters as Seamus tries to reason with a nearly apoplectic Ron.

In the time it takes Harry to locate his glasses and recover his eyesight, a number of things happen: firstly, Neville wrestles Ron away from Dean; secondly, Dean decides it’s a great moment to tell Ron he’s part of the problem, always sticking his nose in Ginny’s business; thirdly, Ron struggles to remove himself from Neville and grunts that only an idiot would trash talk a girl when her brother shares the room and keeps asking Dean if he’s an idiot; fourthly, and Harry vaguely remembers this, he somehow thrusts his wand underneath Dean’s chin and vows to curse his tongue right off if he ever so much as pronounces Ginny’s name. 

Then they’re out of there, Ron and him, Ron rambling on about how Ginny has six brothers and how the least scary is a poncey Ministry worker with an axe to grind. Harry’d laugh, he really would, if he weren’t so busy fuming himself.

Hermione nearly has a heart attack when they plop grunting next to her on the saggy sofa, disturbing her studies. She gives them a long look, pats their respective arms and turns back to her reading.

They’ll tell her when they’re done raging. Hermione knows it and they know.

For now, they need to boil individually for awhile and then - oh, then they’ll abuse Dean to no end between the three of them.

Harry’s never looked forward to anything more.

* * *

Harry feels oddly giddy when he walks onto the pitch, adrenaline running through every inch of his body, from his buzzing ears to his fingertips. He’s finally got his team back and that means nothing’s coming between Gryffindor and the Quidditch Cup.

It also means that Dean’s finally out of the team now that Katie’s back, but who’s focusing on details, eh?

“Alright, team!” Ginny grins, arranging her high pony tail and kicking her broom once, twice before she zooms up. “Let’s focus and give everything we have today. We’re going to skin those Ravenclaw gits!”

And though Harry really does appreciate the sentiment and his team’s new found enthusiasm, he is still the captain and thus must maintain his authority. 

“What Ginny said,” he puffs his chest and kicks his broom up too. At least he tried.

He’s well aware of the unsubtle giggling coming from Demelza and Katie as well as Ginny’s sudden determination to fly so close by him Harry’s lungs fill with that flowery scent she carries. Soon enough he’s so dizzy he doesn’t even notice the Quaffle careening straight to his head.

“Wake up, Captain,” Ginny winks and retrieves the Quaffle, immediately pelting it to the hoops with such force and accuracy, Ron’s quite winded when he catches it in his stomach. 

“You did that on purpose!” Ron complains as he angrily rubs at his stomach.

Ginny simply shrugs, “Not my fault you’re such a slowpoke.”

Anticipating a sibling feud about to go down, Harry blows his whistle and calls the team to the centre of the pitch to explain the new tactics and flying formation they’ll use against Ravenclaw. He did channel all his Dean related frustration into drafting them so it’s no surprise when Katie remarks it’s a bit more attack than defence.

“That means we’ll skin them,” Demelza grins, elbowing Ginny.

Harry gets lost in her blazing brown eyes for a beat, then remembers himself and clears his throat. “Right. Peaks, Coote, this time you’ll be focusing on the Keeper. Ginny, Katie, Demelza, you score at full speed while the Beaters keep him busy. Ron, you’re not letting them get into your head; sing Weasley is our King to yourself if you have to but don’t let them mess with you, yeah?”

Everybody nods and from then there’s the most exhausting, gruelling, and rewarding practice Harry’s ever had. He’s completely knackered and entirely chuffed with what they’ve done today, his team.

Once they hit the lockers, steam rising from the small shower cubicles, Harry finally allows himself to relax; his muscles burn as he works every kink on his shoulders, his back. Lather, rinse, towel.

He hears Ron yawn a ‘Later, mate’ before he even gets a chance to get dressed - more than likely running full speed towards the Great Hall for dinner, the ever hungry git.

Harry’s certain he’s the only one left, having heard his team’s cheery goodbyes as they filed out one by one. So he doesn’t think much when he prances around in a towel hanging loose over his hips, plopping on the bench with a satisfied moan as he dries his perpetually messy hair.

“Nice,” Ginny smirks and Harry nearly screams in his decidedly _ not _ macho voice.

She’s at the door, eyeing him smugly, big, cheeky grin on her face.

“What are you doing there?” Harry manages to ask her once he’s finished his double over.

“Enjoying myself,” Ginny shrugs, completely unabashed. “See you later, Harry.”

Harry can bet his broom she winks before she closes the door behind her, leaving him staring awkwardly in her wake, little droplets of water streaming down his face, his chest in rivulets.


	9. May

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THE hbp chapter of all chapters! here it is, finally & we truly hope we did it justice :)

They’re on the Quidditch pitch, fighting tooth and nail for the Cup, the mighty Gryffindor lion roaring, thundering its sheer strength and power at haughty Ravenclaw. It’s 300 to 290 for Gryffindor and Harry’d rather go down spiralling, Snitch toiling underneath white knuckles, than let those feathered gits get one more Quaffle through that post.

A feeling shared by Ginny as well, it seems, if the banshee scream erupting from her throat is any indication, her face the picture of determination as she soars through the air, splitting open the horizon, red mane of hair fluttering behind her like a ripple of blood over the deep blue of the sky. 

A great, deafening lioness’ roar and Ginny pelts the Quaffle so hard it bends the goal post where it hits it before scoring -

Harry’s heart sinks instantly, his eyes bulging, fixed on a limp Ginny falling fast to the ground, apparently having fainted after her spectacular throw, and he screams and dives and jumps off his broom to catch her before she hits the cold hard ground.

Everything’s fine, he’s caught her and he’s holding her close to his...naked chest? Suddenly Harry’s without half his Quidditch gear and, oh, so is Ginny. They’re both bare chested and embracing in the middle of the pitch and Harry’s mortified to hear the wolf-whistles coming from the audience, Luna Lovegood commentating the sudden turn of events like there’s nothing unusual, asking the spectators to close their eyes at once for love making requires a certain level of intimacy.

He tries his best to keep his eyes away from Ginny’s chest, but he can’t do anything about the feeling of her breasts pressed to him, her beautiful, freckled hands rumpling his hair, her lips glued to his jaw, traveling down to his pulse point as she whispers how hot, how fit she finds him. Harry nearly faints when he feels her tongue there.

Out of the corner of his eye he catches a glimpse of Dean and Ron playing stone paper scissors to establish who gets to hit Harry first and his own mind screams at him to grab Ginny and run.

Only he can’t, he’s petrified and can’t possibly move any muscle in his body when Ginny’s hand sneaks inside the lower part of his gear and grabs his -

Harry’s eyes snap open and he’s brought back to consciousness (and, sadly, also to a Ginny-less reality) with a loud gasp. It takes him a moment to realise it’s his own hand gripping tightly inside his pajama bottoms, something wet and sticky spread everywhere inside them. Shit.

He silently curses everything from his hormone-controlled mind to his lack of a healthy dose of Gryffindor drama and recklessness when he actually needs it (how else is he going to ever tell her that he fancies her, eh?), pulls his battered old bathrobe around him as tightly as possible and, making sure the rest of the lads are still fast asleep, shuffles to the bathroom on his tippy toes. 

May’s only started for a couple of hours and Harry can already predict it won’t unlock anything new for him besides probably some fresh, astounding levels of teenage embarrassment, sprinkled with a new found desire to crawl inside a hole and die. 

After a long shower where Harry talks to himself more than is the norm, a few well placed Evanescos, and a perhaps ill-advised assist from Dobby, Harry thinks he’s probably in the best frame of mind possible after last night’s episode.

It’s been quite a while since he attempted the ‘Ginny’s like my sister’ method of internal browbeating - the repeated dreams and daydreams made him feel squeamish - but he’s still firmly in the ‘mind over matter’ camp. Yes he clearly fancies her, yes she’s cheeky and smart and beautiful and probably the plain coolest person he’s ever met aside from Sirius or Bill, but she’s off limits. At least that’s what he tells himself. 

Most of the time. 

Other times, he wonders what it would be like to just give in to it. To drum up some courage, act like he’s flying high on Felix Felicis, and...and do something that ends up with Ginny snogging the daylights out of him.

But those ideas only last so long. Usually crashing down with a confused look from Ron and a wondering question of when Harry became a ‘bleary eyed guppy’, ‘dead faced lemming’, or any other animal based insult that Ron uses to disguise how much he cares.

Which is really the problem. Harry’s not afraid of Ron in the ‘big brother is going to rip out your innards sense.’ They’ve had their share of arguments over the years and Harry’s grown fairly confident in his ability to hold his own in a fight - magic or no. Which is a level of bravado that may be hereditary, and also a good way to get his face punched in. 

Nonetheless, if it were just about having it out with Ron about being a nosy git, it’s one thing, but Ron cares so much more than he wants to admit. He’s a protective, overly-invested Molly Weasley trapped in the body of a freckled gangly thing with an inability to admit actual feelings. And among those are the very real instincts that he has to keep his best mate and his kid sister from getting their hearts broken. 

Not that Harry’s in any position to judge emotional constipation.

And even with the mess swirling around his crowded head, Harry feels he’s in a somewhat better mindset post-shower and even finds himself able to carry on a mildly coherent conversation with Ron and Hermione later on the way to breakfast.

Yes, he’s feeling quite chuffed with himself as he crunches into a marmalade-drenched triangle of toast until three things happen at once.

Said marmalade decides it much prefers his tie to crispy bread, Harry’s brain decides not to let any of his breakfast go to waste, and Ginny Weasley claims the seat across from him.

So his first non-dream Ginny sighting of May 1997 is a wild eyed glance while he’s sucking orange marmalade from his tie and juggling a half eaten piece of toast in his free hand.

Bloody perfect.

Of course, she’s a damn sight to see, two braids wrapping her hair into intricate patterns, freckles dark against sun-red skin, shirt only partially buttoned, and her tie dangling like a scarf around her neck. 

Harry is a different sort of sight, but he earns gawking just as much. So when Ginny bites back a smirk and lifts one brow in his direction, he really can’t fault whatever comes next.

“I see you’ve had a bit of a morning, eh, Harry?”

God, she’s amazing.

“Er - yeah.”

She reaches for the dish piled high with fluffy scrambled eggs and Harry jolts to assist, his fingers brushing hers just barely. Ginny seems fine, completely unruffled, but his idiotic mind jumps right back to the last time they touched. Well - dream Harry and dream Ginny touched. 

When dream Ginny’s hand was reaching for something other than eggs and her groan was for him - 

Although, technically, eggs were in fact the first touch they shared, Ginny felt so real - but that’s certainly not a thought to be had early in the morning and especially not in the vicinity of older brothers and more or less the entirety of the Hogwarts student body.

She sighs and takes another bite. “If any of you repeat this I’ll deny it, but sometimes I think the elves make better eggs than Mum.”

Ron shrugs and pushes another forkful past his lips. “Dunno, eggs are eggs. ‘Cept those weird Muggle powdered ones Dad made us all eat for the educational value.”

“I can’t help but think about how our food ends up here,” Hermione says, shuffling her oatmeal around absently, “We eat from slave labor - I think that’s why I prefer home cooking,” she blushes and studiously keeps her eyes from Ron when she murmurs, “Especially Mrs. Weasley’s Beef Wellington.”

Apparently, this is quite effective at hooking Ron’s attention. Which anyone who’s known Ron for more than a day can tell you is a feat when seated at any meal. But Hermione’s a clever one to be sure, and she was bound to figure it out after six years.

Harry’s wondering if he’s willing to pass up the opportunity to tease the two of them on the off chance that Ron pulls his head out of his arse and actually makes a move before they’re thirty, when he feels someone nudge him beneath the table.

He glances up and finds Ginny watching him expectantly. “You’re awfully quiet - should I worry there’s a snitch among us?”

“I’m going to need compensation to cross Molly Weasley,” Harry answers, swallowing the last of his tea.

And in the first stroke of luck Harry’s had today, he’s managed to swallow by the time Ginny winks and asks, “What do you have in mind?”

He does choke on his tongue, which isn’t left open for comment because in a simultaneous moment of perfect and horrific timing, Ron decides to obliviously insert himself back into the conversation. “How about pay him back with a good offense against Ravenclaw? They’ve gotten too arrogant.” 

Hermione snorts, but Ron misses it, already knee deep in a strategy debate with Ginny. Harry however doesn’t miss a thing. Not the affectionate glance she casts toward Ron before darting her gaze between Harry and Ginny, then lingering on Harry and giving him an obnoxiously knowing look. 

She’s too smart to hang around sometimes.

Once Ron’s finished his third helping of eggs, the foursome rise from their seats and Ron begins prodding Hermione for tips on wand movements. A turn of events Harry really thinks he can’t be expected to ignore. It’s low hanging fruit and yet completely irresistible. 

He’s about to cut in with some already half-formed jibe because really, wand movement tips, when Ginny sidles up beside him and threads her arm through the crook of his elbow. “This is such perfect material it almost feels too easy to be that fun.”

“Ron’s a bit of an idiot, isn’t he?” Harry says with a laugh.

“At least when it comes to Hermione.”

“Girls in general maybe,” Harry puts in as they exit the Great Hall, amongst the slow trickle of late crowd, “Lest we forget the Lavender trials.”

“Oh hell, that was a bloody nightmare.”

“At least you didn’t have to see it up close and personal,” Harry groans, “You were with - “ he clears his throat, “Busy.”

Ginny bites back a laugh, rolling her eyes when a few Ravenclaws elbow past with impatient looks. “Something like that.”

She grabs the strap of his bag and pulls them off toward the side, a little alcove where the corridor splits between upper and lower classrooms, while Ron and Hermione continue on their way, deep in conversation.

Harry props his shoulders against the stone, arms crossed over his chest and one foot kicked up while Ginny lifts one hand to straighten his tie.

“You know that feint last practice was pretty impressive - sometimes I think you could go pro if you wanted.”

“Only sometimes?” Harry asks, eyes twinkling when Ginny snickers.

“I said what I said.”

“Well, I’ve got to keep my game sharp. There’s an upstart Chaser who’s got eyes for the captainship and my spot on the team.”

Ginny toys with the end of one of her braids before blinking up at him, all innocence. “No idea who you’d mean. Everyone knows Chaser’s the best position. Seekers just want glory - Chasers are the lifeblood of the team and the game itself.”

Her hands are back at his tie, this time fiddling with the end, while Harry somehow finds him bracing his forearm against the wall, looming too close to Ginny for his sanity. Which is why it sounds a little strangled when he responds, “Oh really?”

Ginny flicks the silky fabric between her fingers and shrugs, “Yes, really. Who’d want to sit and watch a couple of skinny gits circling the pitch for hours on end, just waiting for something to happen. Chasers are in it from the beginning, making things happen, getting shit done.”

Harry somehow ends up leaning closer because Ginny Weasley is a damn magnet or a bloody lamp and he’s an idiot fly. Hell, she smells amazing. “Well, Seekers, they play the long game,” he clears his throat when she licks her lips and blinks up at him, waiting, “On the surface it’s like nothing’s happening but they, ah - always show up in the end.”

Ginny bites her lip, her voice almost a whisper when she asks, “Is that so?”

It takes three swallows before Harry’s voice becomes audible, “Mhm, true and plain as the nose on your face.”

Ginny’s response dies in her throat when Ron jogs back towards them and shouts across the now bustling hall - a development Harry’ll wonder how he missed later on - yelling something about being late for class. 

Harry misses most of it because Ginny pulls on the end of his tie and winks right at him, before offering a cheeky salute. “See you at practice, Captain.”

Later, when Ron’s down for his pre-practice kip, Harry ends up with Hermione in the Common Room while she works on her outline for their final exam in Potions and Harry reads over his Transfiguration notes. It’s a half-assed attempt, to be sure, and Harry’s expecting this to be the subject of Hermione’s oncoming conversation. 

Instead, as she slides a bookmark into place and sets her textbook aside, she says, “So you’ve never really had a girlfriend, right?”

Harry frowns, wondering whether the two worst dates of all time count as having a very short lived girlfriend. Hermione toys with one of the curls escaped from her bun and says, “Cho doesn’t count - neither does the Yule Ball. Cho was just a date and the other was a complete trainwreck of pre-pubescent attempts at wooing.”

“Thanks for the assessment,” Harry answers, dry.

Hermione presses her lips into a thin line, blows out a deep breath and finally seems to settle on what she’d like to say next. “Girls. Well, girls aren’t all the same, of course. I suppose I should just say people - there’s a thing called body language.”

“Hermione, I know what body language is.”

She grunts. “Yes, but it doesn’t matter if you know but do nothing about it. I’ve read a lot about it.”

“I’m shocked.”

Hermione jabs him with her quill. “I’ve read a lot about it and I can say with absolute certainty that we had some major signals being fired today at breakfast.”

“I have no doubt that’s true, Miss Let Me Tutor You In Wand Movements.”

Blushing, Hermione tosses her quill at Harry, splattering ink across his much abused tie. Hopefully Dobby is in the mood to help Harry bleach ink, butter, marmalade, and newt’s eyes out of silk.

“What I am trying to say - I want to help you,” she raises her palm when Harry tries to respond, “I want to help by telling you that all those bottled up feelings seem quite mutual.”

“Is that so.”

“Yes, and you’d be an idiot to let it go to waste.”

“The feelings?”

“The connection,” Hermione corrects, “It’s a special thing, to get each other. To know someone so intimately without even trying. Just, don’t take it for granted. We both know how easy it is to let it slip away, even just a little.”

Sighing, Harry nods and tucks his things away in his satchel. “I’ve got Quidditch.”

Hermione waves him off, “Of course - just think about it? Second chances are easier to come by than third.”

Harry’s tempted to parrot what she’d said but quickly changes tactics when he runs into Ginny, Demelza, and Katie giggling near the portrait hole, bags dangling on their shoulders. He flashes them a wide grin instead. 

“Wait up, losers,” Ron hurries down the stairs before they can disappear without him, bleary eyed but somehow also ready for a brawl. “Your King is coming.”

Harry’s always respected Ron’s gameness, his ability to sniff a fight (or the possibility of one) from a distance and jump right into it, damn the torpedoes. 

“Who died and made you king, Weasley?” Ginny scoffs, eyeing her brother with a pleased smirk. They were all very happy Ron no longer gave Slytherin that kind of power over him as he’d long since turned the meaning of the word ‘king’ in his favour.

“Last name basis is a no go for siblings,” Ron instructs as he hops down next to them, the entire team having congregated there over the span of the last couple of minutes.

“Why?”

“‘Cause it’s weird, now let’s shift,” Ron grins and Harry too feels pumped, his best mate’s energy infectious. 

The team jostles their way through the portrait hole, earning a few choice words from the Fat Lady in her post-dinner wine haze. Harry offers her an apologetic smile and salutes when she lifts her glass in acknowledgement.

Katie saunters up to his side and throws an arm around his neck. “Got an eye for our good ol’ Fat Lady?”

Demelza bounces up and bats her eyes, grasping her chest with an exaggerated sigh. “Don’t tell me our gallant captain is off the market.”

“I will have you doing laps, Robbins,” Harry threatens with a laugh while Ron comes up on his opposite side and nudges his jaw.

“Ickle Harry growing up? Finally going to make good on all those hormones pulsing through his scrawny little body?”

“Shove off.”

As they break out into the golden evening, Ginny joins the group jibing Harry, tossing her braid over her shoulder as she walks backwards. “Don’t tease Harry just because none of you get anywhere with the Fat Lady.”

“I could if I wanted to,” Demelza sniffs, “Well, before she had her heart set on the Boy Who Lived over here.”

“Right,” Harry drawls, “‘Cause we all know that title has gotten me loads of action.”

He slaps Ron’s hand away as it ruffles his hair while they near the changing rooms. Ron’s already stripping his outer robes when he calls out. “That’s not for lack of trying on their part - we all know you could have as much ‘action’ as you want.”

Ginny tosses her practice Quaffle at Ron - and remarkably he catches it without a thought - before she says, “Well, yeah, Ron, but who wants a simpering fool for a girlfriend?”

She leaves it at that and disappears into the opposite end of the changing room, but not before sharing a long glance with Harry. Which he assumes is an unspoken allusion to Ron’s recently ended relationship. But there was something beneath the teasing - like she looked right through him and just knew what he was, what he wanted. Even better than he did.

Shaking his head, Harry followed the rest of the team to suit up, hoping a few hours sweating on the pitch would clear his head.

In his theoretical vision of this head-clearing experience, Harry would work hard, practice some new maneuvers, and yell himself hoarse to get himself back on track.

Instead, he spends a good portion of the evening getting beat up by his own damn team. And not because they’re that good, or because of some ‘Ravenclaw will give us worse’ training technique. No, it’s his own idiotic inability to bloody focus on anything but Ginny in the air.

She’s like nothing he’s ever seen, like she’d never been tethered to the ground like everyone else but born on a broom, born to fly as high as she desires. They’re a great team, Harry’s convinced even Oliver Wood would concede the point. But Ginny’s a class above. Everything flows naturally though he knows Ginny’s expertise is far from some kind of genetic lottery. She works hardest of any of them, spends her summers stealing out into the fields behind the Burrow to toss Quaffles, dodge charmed Bludgers, and dive and swoop through self-made obstacle courses. 

And it doesn’t end once she’s back at Hogwarts. Harry’s watched her from his window - in a non creepy way, clearly - many a night as she streaked across the orange sky, bent low over her broom while her hair flew behind her like the tail of a comet.

She’s winding up for another shot at Ron’s weak side when Harry suddenly finds himself airborne in the non-broom assisted way while pain blooms across his right side.

He vaguely hears swear-laden exclamations over the screaming of the wind in his ears while he fumbles for his broom or wand or something that’ll slow his plummet towards the pitch.

What is it with May and people slipping off their brooms, fantasy wise or not.

In the end, he does manage to shout a few spells that somewhat slow his descent before someone grabs his arm and stops him from splattering on the grass below. Luckily, he wasn’t at full speed when his savior stepped in because even with the lessened velocity it feels like his arm is in one place and the rest of him traveled an extra foot.

When he looks up, still too shocked to register whether anything hurts, he finds Ginny frowning at him from her broom. “Hells bells, Harry, what was that?”

“I, er - it’s hard being in the game and being Captain sometimes.”

She furrows her brow and reaches her other hand toward him while they slowly sink to the ground. “I don’t remember it being this hazardous to Angelina’s health.”

Harry winces and rolls his shoulder, glad for the movement, and maybe preening just a bit under Ginny’s attention. However mothering it may be.

Demelza drops down next to them and smirks. “Cap, you’ve got to keep your head in the game if we’re going to beat those swotty Ravenclaws.”

“Least we know it’s not dislocated,” Ron adds as he wanders over, “Charlie’s done that so many times he can pop it in and out at will.”

Katie grimaces, “Ew.”

“Mum hates when he does that,” Ginny says with a chuckle, “But she didn’t know he used it to get Percy to do his chores for him.”

Their laughter feels like a good end to practice, and if he’s honest, Harry’s arm really is a bit sore to go much longer. So seeing as they’re already all earthbound, he blows his whistle and they begin wandering toward the changing rooms.

When Ginny falls into step at his side, Harry nudges her with his elbow, “That was a pretty impressive catch, Gin.”

She startles a little but grins as she pushes stray hairs back from her face. “Thanks. Can’t have Mum coming after me for letting her favourite fall to his death for Quidditch of all things.”

Harry snorts and shoves her shoulder, because he’s a pubescent idiot who makes up reasons to touch girls he fancies like a ninny and now he winces ‘cause of course rapid movements from injured limbs bloody hurt. To keep himself somewhat sane, he begins putting up the balls and Ginny moves to help. He’s quiet a moment before he says, “Seriously though, it was almost as good as my catch first year.”

“Mhm,” Ginny nods, thoughtfully, “I guess catching you in my mouth would have been pretty impressive.”

“You wish you could get me in your mouth,” Harry shoots back, and immediately wishes for a swift death.

For her part, Ginny simply glances up at him and lifts her brows for a moment. The rest of the team’s kept moving towards the castle at this point, with Demelza quarelling with Coote and Peakes over who’s hungrier, and Harry’s stopped dead. Frozen like he’s been stunned. Ginny bites her lip, considering. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

“I - ”

“Oi!” 

Harry jolts at Ron’s voice and they both twist to find Ron shouting from yards away. “Planning on coming back inside before end of term?”

Ginny flips Ron off while Harry summons their robes with a flick of his wand. “I don’t particularly feel like changing again, just to head upstairs.”

They begin walking toward Ron and Ginny smirks, their previous conversation lost. Which is exactly what Harry wanted, right?

“Plus, if you’ve got an excuse to head up to your dorm, you can escape Hermione’s revision schedule for the evening.”

“I like the way you think, Weasley.”

“Learned from the best,” Ginny says, easy, “Good ol’ Gred and Forge. And ha, I knew you were off by a mile when you said siblings can’t employ a last name basis. I win!”

Tales, the truthfulness of which Harry’s not quite sure, bounce back and forth between Ron and Ginny once they’ve reunited, and shared laughter carries them up to Gryffindor Tower and through the portrait hole. 

He’s feeling a bit giddy with Ron’s arm tossed around his shoulder and Ginny leaning into his side for support as she doubles over,o when Dean’s withering glare falls on the trio.

Was he waiting for them? Who does that?

...Asks the boy who’s been waiting for the same person late at night, pretending to study alone in the Common Room. Same person as in Ginny, definitely not Dean.

Ginny’s the last of them to notice, and she mostly does because Ron goes still while his entire body tenses for a fight. She’s also the first to recover, offering an unimpressed glance at Dean before she winks at Harry and wishes her best for his injury.

By the time she’s disappeared into the 5th Year Girls’ Dorm, Ron’s still in some weird staring match with Dean that Harry jostles him from with a casual jab to his arm. “Let’s head up before Hermione ropes us in for more revising, eh?”

Ron startles but complies as Harry pulls him towards the dorm. They’re halfway up the stairs when Ron grumbles. “I swear next idiot that so much as looks at Ginny’ll get my fist in his face.”

Bloody buggering hell.

* * *

Harry’s not sure if the near-duel with a trio of macho Slytherins is a mark of continued bad luck, or simply the universe’s complete investment in torturing him. Sure, he didn’t get detention, which definitely would have happened if they’d dueled. Slytherins inevitably report to Snape and if Harry so much as breathes wrong it seems he finds himself being punished by the former Potions Master.

Sometimes, he thinks perhaps his dad had been pushed and pushed until that day by the lake. Thinks that maybe he understands getting so frustrated, so caught up in the back and forth taunts and fighting that you forget that there are lines that shouldn’t be crossed.

And one day, Harry fears he’ll lose sight of that line and nobody will be there to pull him back.

He’s felt the tickle of that righteous anger before, that whisper in his ear that some people just push and push and maybe - 

And maybe Harry’s more like Voldemort than he’d like to accept. Dumbledore swore there was no comparison, that his fears were unfounded. And yet - 

“What’s up, Mr Sad Face?”

Harry starts as Ginny drops down next to him on the grass, hair loose and blowing in the wind skirting off the Great Lake. “I can’t really argue with that description.”

Ginny nudges his leg with the toe of her shoe, stray bits of grass falling from the patent leather. “Share with the class?”

Harry’s silent for a moment, hands twisting in his lap.

“Do you think I’m - do you think I could be evil?”

For a moment, Ginny just considers him, then she lets out a loud laugh. “I thought you might be joking. But you aren’t, are you?”

“No - I just. Today with those Slytherins. Sometimes with Malfoy or Snape. I worry where I’d go if I didn’t stop.”

“Well that’s your answer right there,” Ginny says as she loosens her tie and lounges back on her palms. While the sunlight filters through the tree, Ginny lets her eyes drift shut and waits for Harry to consider what she’s said.

“Because I think about it?”

Ginny pins him with her gaze. “Do you think Voldemort or Bellatix or any of them stop to wonder whether they’ve gone too far? Or whether they’re evil?”

“I dunno. I mean probably not Voldemort but - ”

She drops her hand into the grass so the tips of her fingers brush his. “You are one of the bravest, kindest, most loving and selfless people I’ve ever known. Sometimes I worry you forgive too much. So you, Harry James, are the farthest thing from old Moldy Shorts there can be.”

Harry snorts. 

“Except maybe Dobby.”

Their attention drifts to the Giant Squid, churning about in the murky waters, before Harry murmurs, “When am I going to help you out?”

Ginny laughs like he surprised it out of her. “Remember my first year? We’re good for a bit.”

Flushing, Harry rips up a handful of grass and watches the shorn blades float away on the breeze. “That doesn’t count.”

“Well, what does, then?” Ginny says, brows raised, “I can’t imagine anything much more ‘helpful.’”

“There was no choice,” Harry shrugs, “You deciding to listen to me whine about my teen angst is an ongoing project.”

“Well that’s what we are for each other - we’re,” Ginny pauses as their eyes lock and Harry almost thinks she leans towards him, like she’s thinking about the same things he dreams about too often.

But before either of them can give the idea much more consideration, the Giant Squid’s aerobics increase in forcefulness and sends a spurt of water directly into Harry’s face. 

“Shit.”

Ginny laughs while he swipes at his face, glasses dangling from his fingers, but she soon lifts them from his grasp and dries them on the tail of her shirt. 

“See, even the Squid’s on my side.”

He’s content to simply watch her laugh, the thought that she might’ve sought him out today quickly ghosting through his mind before he brushes it away.

* * *

Harry simultaneously feels like he could break something - Snape’s neck no less - and also poorly, badly, even sorry for what he did. But how could’ve he known? 

He should’ve known, he should have. All the signs were there, but Harry wanted, needed to trust the Prince. And so Draco Malfoy almost bled to death after a too easily muttered spell.

He’s about as deep as he can dive down into the pit of self-loathing when Ginny unexpectedly cuts off Hermione’s snappish, smug comments, knocks her off her high horse. It doesn’t make Harry feel any better about himself, though, but it does divert his attention for a bit, his disappointment at having been somehow deceived by the Prince.

Enough to remember that he won’t play the final match, he won’t be there for his team, to cheer them and keep their spirits up. They’d have to play without him. All those hours of hard work…

Some captain he is.

He needs to scream into a pillow.

When the day finally drags along, Harry’s careful to duck his head and disappear before he can meet anyone, miserably carrying himself to Snape’s lair, hatred sizzling above the surface. He braces himself for what’s about to come, steels himself. He can do it.

Harry can’t stop himself worrying about his team, angry thoughts mixing together with hope and fear and guilt. What if Ron’s confidence flounders? And they all somehow forget the defence tactics they’d rehearsed almost obsessively? What if Katie or Demelza get hit and they’re suddenly a Chaser short?

God, what if Ginny’s injured?

Harry battles his mind, troubled as the minutes crawl their way into hours and Snape finally relents. He springs out of there before the slimy git can change his mind.

Harry’s at the portrait hole in a heartbeat, hesitating before he tries the password. If they’d lost, it’ll be his fault. If they’d let the Quidditch Cup slip, it’ll only be his slip. He’s the only one responsible, not them.

He finally summons what’s left of his Gryffindor courage and strengthens his resolve. “Quid agis?”

“You’ll see,” the Fat Lady smartly replies and Harry braces himself for whatever’s waiting for him inside. They’ve lost before, it’s not like he doesn’t know what failure tastes like. Although they’ve trained so hard this year, they were so bloody close -

Then Harry’s yanked inside by several pairs of hands gripping haphazardly at his clothes, people shouting and screaming at the sight of him and for a moment he seriously fears he’s stumbled into the middle of a public execution: his very own.

Irrational fear morphs into plain shock when he sees Ron brandishing the Cup at him, screeching numbers at him, his teammates roaring in delight, calling Harry ‘Captain’, asking him how proud he is of them all.

It’s a whirlwind of colours and sounds in Harry’s mind and at the centre of it all there’s Ginny, a hard, blazing look in her face as she comes running towards him, long ginger hair fluttering behind her, arms spread wide. She’s beautiful, more beautiful than he’d ever seen her. 

Harry’s heart leaps violently and his mind disconnects. 

Years after that day, they’d still debate who kissed who. But right then, Harry couldn’t be bothered. All he cared to know was Ginny, her mouth on his, her warm body in his arms, and that finally - ha, it was even funny to think it, but finally reality was better than his dreams.

The sound returns to Harry’s ears, the giggles and whispers and wolf-whistles buzzing against his eardrums. The monster inside his chest roars triumphantly and Harry grins madly, his eyes shining as they meet Ron’s and he nods, his heart leaping out of its cage in pure delight when he looks at Ginny and her dazzling smile. 

Their hands lock as they climb through the portrait hole and Harry feels a sudden spring in his step, a toothy grin glued to his glowing face. The feel of her palm in his, so soft except for one blister blossoming right at the centre of it, ah, it makes Harry’s head spin. 

He doesn’t even hesitate when they reach the top of the marble staircase towering over the Great Hall. He simply beams at Ginny and, leaning in to press his lips to hers again, sweeps her up and holds her tightly to his chest as she shrieks playfully against his mouth. The chatter and whiz of the crowded Hall stop abruptly.

“Oi, who’s got their tongue down Weasley’s throat?” 

“Oh my god, that’s Potter! Potter and Weasley!”

And the chorus of voices, the general ruckus and chaos of the Great Hall envelop the castle once again and Harry doesn’t even care who spotted them and that people are pointing their fingers at Ginny and him. He’s purely content to put on a show if that means he’s able to hold her like that.

Ginny’s laughing too and she laces their fingers together again, tugging him down the stairs and quickly through the crowds of students gawking at them, out of the Castle through the ancient doors. 

They run until breathing becomes hard and they stop, hands on their knees and slightly hunched over, to pant and laugh and grin madly at each other, the late spring breeze lightly whipping Ginny’s hair over her beautiful face, caressing her freckles. 

“Shall we?” Ginny nudges over to a sunny patch of grass and wildflowers blooming round the bark of a giant tree. Somebody’s carved a heart and many initials of past lovers have been added inside it and around it and Harry thinks it’s all very fitting. 

_ M.P.+A.W. _

_ J.P.+L.E. _

He drops next to her with a thud and Ginny slips her hand inside his. Harry studies her face for a moment, pushes a strand of ginger hair behind her small ear, and, like magnets, he allows his mouth to find hers again. It takes a long time before they break away.

Harry’s stomach fills with something warm when he feels her tongue dart over his lips and instantly opens his mouth for her. He’s never kissed anyone like that, not that he’s too experienced in the kissing department, but Ginny’s tongue rolling over his has his toes curling and, just like that, he’s breathless and desperate to mirror every single one of her actions.

She shifts on her knees, her arms lock around his neck and immediately grip at his hair; lightly, gently at first, then more urgent as their kiss deepens and Harry pulls her onto his lap without thinking.

“I’ve always wanted to see how your hair feels,” Ginny says, a little out of breath, her cheeks tinged pink and Harry fights hard to stifle a yelp. Instead, he concentrates on summoning all the dormant coolness he hopefully has and hasn’t been aware of till now.

“Any thoughts post-hair feel?” 

Ginny flashes him a mischievous smile, fingers twirling a couple of dark locks at the back of his head. “It’s glorious.”

Harry knows there’s a new stupid grin plastered to his face and he privately thinks there won’t ever come a day when Ginny’s compliments won’t make him feel like he can suddenly float three meters above the ground.

Then a sudden, irrational panic washes over him. “This isn’t a dream, yes?”

“I’d be very annoyed if it were. You’ve been crawling your way into a ridiculous amount of mine for me to remain sane,” she tells him before dipping her head to kiss him again and Harry purrs. She’d been dreaming about him too, ha!

It’s dark outside and they’re incredibly windswept when they finally stop and realise how much time has actually passed. They’ve been completely oblivious to the chill that fell over the Scottish mountains at sunset, too busy discovering each other, too happy to feel anything else.

“I desperately need a shower, I reek,” Ginny scrunches her nose as they trot back to the Castle, hands holding tightly to each other.

“Yeah, great idea, I’ll join,” Harry chimes enthusiastically. Any day with Snape leaves him feeling filthy and in need of a long, hot shower and a good scrub.

It’s only when she stops dead in her tracks that he becomes aware of how it must’ve sounded to her. Harry blushes furiously, two seconds away from hyperventilating.

“Oh, no, no, no! Not like that - I meant separate showers for us, yeah, not together, er - I was definitely not suggesting. Oh, god. Please don’t break up with me,” he finishes lamely.

But Ginny appears to find him adorable and tells him so, rising on the soles of her Quidditch boots to cup his face and bring him down for another kiss, heated and hard, leaving him dizzy and winded. 

Their cheeks are equally flushed as they climb two stairs at a time, expertly avoiding the missing ones, and stealing another couple of quick kisses in front of the Fat Lady, who hides her face, embarrassed by such shameless displays of frivolity. She swings open without requesting the password and Harry and Ginny grin at each other.

“See you in a bit, yeah?” Ginny smiles at him, her hands roaming through his hair one last time before he nods and kisses her and stands at the bottom of the stairs leading to the Girls’ Dormitories grinning stupidly. 

He’s hit with an eyeful of Ron’s disgusted look when he turns around, but Harry only shrugs and heads to the showers feeling more relaxed than he’s ever been. 

* * *

“Where have you been?” Hermione throws him a knowing look between two sips of tea and a bite of toast when Harry inserts himself between her and Ginny that morning, successfully earning a filthy glance from Ron.

“Busy coiffing his hair,” Ron mutters but Harry doesn’t balk.

Hermione disguises her giggle poorly, “Really, Harry? I’ve never seen you put any amount of effort into taming your hair.”

Harry shrugs casually, “Not taming. And I’ve been told it’s glorious.”

Ginny winks and Ron pretends to vomit in his milk and cereal.

“Honestly, is that what you’ll be like every time Harry and I are together?” Ginny’s words are clipped though her thumb rubs circles on the back of Harry’s hand under the table before she slides her palm into his, plays with his fingers. His stomach churns wildly; hearing her say they are together, Harry’s chest might actually burst with the sheer force of the happiness he’s feeling.

“Yeah, if it’ll mean you’ll be less gross.”

“Oh, you mean like this?” And Ginny swiftly grabs Harry’s face and kisses him hard on the lips to a chorus of Ron’s irritated splutter and mugs being banged on the long table as Romilda Vane marches out of the Great Hall looking very much like a cat whose tail got stubbed.

“I’m telling Mum about your indecent, well, cavorting.”

“You big baby.”

Harry simply watches in amusement as the Weasley siblings stick their tongues out of each other, brandish threats under each other’s freckly noses. Then Ginny decides she’s had enough and puts an end to the brotherly conversation by pelting a pastry in Ron’s general direction, which sadly plonks right between his bright blue eyes. 

“I’m really happy for you, Harry,” Hermione smiles, lightly squeezing his hand.

“Yeah, me too,” Harry grins, watching as Ron unsuccessfully attempts to tackle Ginny at the other end of the Great Hall, Filch at their heels with a sopping mop and a maniacal glint in his eyes as he chants the word ‘detention’.

And he means it. Nothing’s able to snuff the pure, complete happiness pumping through him. Not Snape, not the piles of homework he’s been neglecting and definitely not Dean shouldering him as Harry sits alone in the corridor, waiting for Ginny to finish Charms so they can enjoy lunch together outside. 

Not even Malfoy and his dirty deeds can occupy Harry’s mind more than a millisecond. There’s not enough room for much next to Ginny, she somehow makes everything else wither.

Harry’s practically skipping towards her when she bursts through the door next to Demelza, waving at Ginny frantically when she greets him with a glowing smile and a kiss.

“Saucy,” Demelza smirks, patting both of them on the back. “I’ll leave you lovebirds to it, then. Later, Captain!”

“She meant me,” Ginny teases, taking his hand in hers. 

“Easy there, Gin. Power-hungry doesn’t paint a pretty colour on you,” Harry jibes good-naturedly as they walk across the Great Hall.

“Not trying to overthrow you just yet. I’m just saying, taking into account your tendency to win yourself detentions and all.”

“Oi, I’ve got a reputation to protect. Can’t break my streak now, you know.”

“Ah, so you’re not planning on doing a 180 and returning to Hogwarts for your final year as The Boy Who’s Been Tamed’?”

“Not too much hope for that I’m afraid.”

“Good,” Ginny says as they stop in front of the tree that sheltered them very nicely the day before, “I like you better when you’re bad.”

Harry lets out a lame groan, his legs having turned to absolute jelly when Ginny yanks him by the tie and he lets her snog him silly on the sun-warmed grass.

Naturally, they forget about lunch that day. And the next. And the one after that, trading food for kisses, urgent and heated, determined to make up for the time they’ve lost before they found each other.

And if Harry’s absolutely honest with himself, he can admit that studying has been getting more or less the same treatment - until Hermione puts her hands on her hips and nags him about interfering with Ginny’s OWLs revision. After that, it’s only his own studying that’s neglected, as he gladly spends his time away from Ginny thinking about her.

“Come study with me in the library?” Ginny asks on a Saturday morning, freckled fingers ruffling his hair as he lounges on the battered old couch near the hearth, head in her lap.

“Ha, I knew Hermione talked dung when she said you’d concentrate better without me.” He grins up at her, hands raising to clasp around her neck and bring her down for a short kiss.

“Actually, she’s right.”

“Oh?”

“I just don’t plan on revising much today,” Ginny winks, bites her bottom lip.

“Tell me more.”

“I can’t focus anyway, some messy haired bloke keeps popping into my mind, it’s quite annoying really.”

“Is that right? And what does he say?”

Ginny’s teeth sink deeper into her lip before she leans in to whisper something into his ear that immediately results in Harry hastily reaching for a pillow, subtly planting it over his middle region. “Don’t let your brother discover you know words like that,” Harry says for want of something smarter. 

Ginny scoffs. “Want me to shout ‘penis’?”

“Please don’t,” Harry shakes his head, panicked, then steals a furtive glance over at Ron hunched over a table by the window with Hermione, what looks like the entirety of Hogwarts library sprawled between them.

“Just teasing you,” she laughs, cups his cheek between two fingers. “Don’t know why you’re so careful anyway, like you’re always walking on your tiptoes round him. What’ll you do when you're be staying at the Burrow with us this summer?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, we’ll be sharing a room, won’t we?”

“Will we?” Harry’s genuinely not thought that far ahead, content to live in the moment with her. Or probably because he’s utterly terrified of Mrs Weasley and her legendary wrath.

“Won’t we?”

There’s a beat before Ginny breaks character and, giggling, pats Harry’s cheek. “Still messing with you. Mum would probably lose it if I request we amend any of her room arrangements. Although, I will expect you to put your resourcefulness to good use for some midnight visits.”

She winks and Harry needs to press the pillow to his crotch again. The way she’s playing with his heart rate, god, he’s surprised he’s not experienced any strokes yet.

Harry clears his throat. “Weren’t we supposed to be in the library by now?”

Ginny grins.

He has absolutely no clue what books he’d stuffed inside his bag before dashing out of Gryffindor Tower, Ginny giggling behind him as they race towards the library. Harry’s aware he’s never been this enthusiastic about revising in his entire student life but then again revising never meant anything other than last minute cramming or perhaps doodling whilst pretending to read. What the both of them have in mind is much, much less boring.

They find a secluded corner and drop their book bags willy-nilly on the table, Ginny summoning various tomes at random to stack them high in front of them like walls to their citadel. Harry props his chair against the wall and, watching her intently, leans back on it, waits for her to join him.

And then she does, their fingers link together, her calf moving over his as their lips slowly slant against one another, then faster, harder, fervently. 

There’s so much heat inside Harry’s body, he has to kiss, to bite, to lick, anything, or else he’ll scream, he’ll go mad. The thought of ripping his own clothes off to blow some steam quickly passes through his mind but Harry waves it away before his other brain can decide it’s a fantastic idea.

“Kiss my neck again?” Ginny asks between their snogs and Harry groans. 

His mouth is at her neck, hot air blown there before he licks and grazes with his teeth, his hands in Ginny’s ginger hair, her hands pulling at his messy locks. He sucks a bit and bites and Ginny moans into his ear, tells him he’s good and brilliant and don’t stop as his tongue flicks and rolls over the bruising skin.

It’s when Ginny moves her knee between his legs that Harry finally loses balance and forgets himself. The chair he’d been sitting on bangs loudly against the wall but he doesn’t care; Ginny’s hands are at his belt.

“Who’s in there?”

They freeze, tongues in each other’s mouths, as Madam Pince’s clipped steps approach them. 

“Show yourselves,” the library matron fiercely demands.

Harry presses a finger to his lips and, pointing his wand toward his bag, summoning it close enough that he can grasp the Cloak. Gently he slips it over them and slowly, carefully they wait for Pince to calm down - although she nearly faints at the sight of her beloved books stacked in forgotten piles on top of a table, crudely taken out of their respective shelves and plainly, rudely abandoned.

They manage to sneak past her, tiptoeing their way out of the library and behind a tapestry of trolls in tutus to assess the situation.

“Well, you look positively ravished,” Ginny laughs, stretching to plant a chaste peck on Harry’s cheek. 

“And you look positively ravishing,” Harry winks, smug, lightly tugging at Ginny’s rumpled hair, highly pleased to notice the blush creeping up her neck, over the swollen patch of skin there.

“You’re lucky all this foreplay’s got me so hungry I could swallow a hippogriff,” she pouts sweetly and Harry feels his ears start to burn for, as far as he’s been told, the word ‘foreplay’ usually implies a following act - the actual play.

He changes balance from one foot to another to subtly arrange things in his trousers while Ginny quickly combs her fingers through her hair, smoothens the wrinkles in her clothes. 

“Let’s get you fed, yeah?”

“Thought you’d never ask.”

After minimal discussion, they mutually agree on the desirability of avoiding Ron’s disgust, Hermione’s reminders about OWLs, and overall the prying eyes of the Hogwarts student population. Luckily, Harry has some connections in the kitchens and Dobby is more than eager to provide a sampler of that evening’s dinner.

Even as Harry’s stomach fills with rich food, his entire being feels lighter than he can remember, his eyes tear with laughter and Ginny’s chuckles fill the cavernous room. Once they’ve thanked Dobby & co., accepted the packed snack for later on, and promised to return before the end of term, Harry and Ginny slip back out the fruit themed portrait.

Ginny leans into Harry’s chest while they wander clumsily toward Gryffindor Tower, unconcerned with whatever the fastest route might be. Like it’s meant to be there, Harry’s arm wraps around Ginny’s shoulders and he basks in her closeness.

It’s hardly been any time at all, in the grand scheme of his life, but Harry can’t seem to remember what filled his days before Ginny. The oddest part is he feels consumed by it, and yet she hasn’t completely taken over his life - simply slotted in and filled all the missing places he didn’t know existed.

Their steps slow at the moving staircases, which are currently hovering in a formation that doesn’t particularly facilitate use, and Ginny leans back to take in his expression. “What’s going on in that brain of yours?”

Briefly, Harry wonders exactly how much of his flowery internal monologue Ginny really wants to hear, and then figures it’s easy enough to sum up. He shrugs, “I’m just. Happy.”

Her smile is brilliant as she presses it against his. “Me too.”

The second kiss is less chaste, a lingering thing. But on the third, Ginny licks into his mouth and he somehow has the presence of mind to guide them off into a shadowy corner. Ginny’s hands ruck up his hair from the roots, fingernails scratching at his scalp, while her quiet sighs send shivers up his spine.

“Gin,” Harry murmurs against her jaw, not really sure what he’ll say if she responds. Whatever thought skittered across his mind is long gone.

She holds him in place with one hand while her free fingers pop a couple of her buttons open, exposing fields of freckles swirling in patterns Harry would like to spend a week memorizing. 

Just as she’s guiding his mouth back to hers, a darkening bruise blossoming still at her collar bone, a throat clears behind them in a recognizable pattern - identifying the interloper as the second worst person who could’ve happened upon them in their current state.

Harry pulls back and turns, grasping one of Ginny’s hands in his and keeping his body partially in front at least until she’s mostly buttoned up.

“Professor.”

McGonagall sniffs, unimpressed. “Potter. Weasley.”

He ruffles his hair, biting back a grimace when he notes this seems more and more likely a genetic trait by the day. “We were, uh - going to practice Quidditch.”

Ginny’s groan is his first clue that something’s not quite right - and is a bit disappointing since her latest groans, moans, and sighs have been for much more pleasant reasons. But he’s a bit slow on the uptake, so it takes McGonagall spelling out the issue for him to catch up. “Quidditch season is over, Potter. I suppose you might have forgotten, given your absence at the game.”

Shit. He’s going to be in detention until he’s forty.

Maybe he’ll get partnered with Ginny…

Professor McGonagall doesn’t mete out a punishment as quickly as usual and instead considers them for a moment in a way Harry does not find particularly comforting. After a pause she says, “You know, I am no stranger to the goings on of hormonal teenagers,” she pauses and Harry’s hands go clammy, “I used to interrupt both of your parents when they decided to…’practice Quidditch.’”

While Harry begins to feel his supper come back up, Ginny groans in disgust, “Professor, why would you say that?”

A ghost of a smile flickers at McGonagall’s pursed lips. “Whatever image you two have managed to dream up is likely worse than whatever I would do in detention.”

There’s a bit of mischief in her eyes as she shoos them towards the dorms, not that Harry thinks either of them could manage to drum up anything close to a mood for snogging at this point. 

Still, all the way Ginny holds his hand and leans into his arm, like they’re meant to fit together and the creature in Harry’s chest purrs happily.

“You really are the worst liar ever, Roonil,” Ginny whispers teasingly before the Fat Lady swings.

* * *

Ron’s increasing fake coughs and repeated scoffs finally irritate Harry just as much as they do Ginny. It is rather clear to Harry that he either slaps his best mate over the head or simply moves their - erm, physical activities elsewhere. 

As a wise young man who values friendship and loves his friends, Harry chooses the second.

Thus he agrees to meet Ginny outside the portrait hole later that evening and find themselves a cosy place to spend a happy hour or two.

“Got your Map?” Ginny asks after he greets her with a short kiss.

Harry nods and adds, “Though we might not need to check it as often. Hermione’s promised to keep Ron busy till 11. So that gives us more or less two hours.” He finds it hard not to waggle his eyebrows or wink but manages to contain himself all the same.

“They’ve finally cracked and begun to snog, then?”

Harry shoots her an amused look. “I wish. Nah, Hermione’s got him on a strict revision schedule. Never too early to prepare for NEWTs, she says.”

Ginny laughs heartily and grips Harry’s hand, her lips pressing a kiss to his shoulder as they walk down the corridor. “I do pity him, you know.”

“I know. Me too, but it’s his own doing. Gotta be a man and come clean, ‘tell her what you’re feeling’ is my personal mantra.”

Ginny scoffs audibly.

“Oh, Harry. You make it too easy for me.”

They volley back and forth as they sneak around corridor after corridor, jumping steps, mindful of the moving staircases, eyes wide open for Prefects or Filch or Snape or all of them combined. They’re on a secret mission and time coupled with the utmost discretion are of the essence.

He’s surprised to notice Ginny’s tugged him inside the same classroom he’d been hiding in from the sickening fluff of Valentine’s Day. The same one where she found him feeling sorry for himself, sat down next to him and laid her beautiful head on his shoulder, made him feel better, cared for even. 

Harry swallows hard, his heart swelling. She’d remembered. 

“I thought we could spend some time here, if you want,” Ginny starts, a little shy, a little uncertain, her teeth sunk deep into her bottom lip.

Harry can’t find the words to express what he’s feeling so he decides it’s best he shows her.

Smiling, he lifts her chin slightly, enough to press his lips to hers, kissing her as he walks them both inside, stumbles to grip the door knob and close it behind them. 

Ginny easily hops onto a nearby desk when she hits it with her back as they fumble their way inside, eyes closed through the ever increasing dark drenching the Castle, smudging the windows a thick black. 

“Nox,” Harry murmurs and the room falls prey to nightfall.

He shuffles closer till his knees press into the hard wood of the desk, hips bracketed by Ginny’s thighs, and he discovers once again that kissing sans uniforms is something else entirely. No cumbersome robes in the way, no fumbling over meters of useless material to be able to feel that sweet closeness.

And that’s exactly what he feels when Ginny’s hands sneak inside his black shirt, nails lightly grazing at his skin as he dips them lower over the desk, palm resting at the back of her head to cushion its impact with the wood. He gasps when she continues to map his chest with the tips of her fingers, when she tickles her way to his back, grips at the muscles there. Her touch is like balm to the soreness he’d been feeling. 

She pulls him over her, legs clasped around his middle, and Harry hisses audibly when their bodies meet. Her waking things up and her actually being able to feel said things waking up are two entirely different things in Harry’s mind and his first impulse is to panic and stumble away.

But Ginny drags him right back. They’ve had close to twenty days of daily practice and she’s used to his bouts of self-consciousness by now, knows how to tackle them. Harry can’t thank her enough for this.

Emboldened, Harry slants his lips across her neck, touch slipping over her chest before his mouth rests right in the middle, hands clumsily roaming at the hem of her blouse. He dares travel further when her thighs grip him harder, his front pressing into her so much, too much it hurts. 

Harry privately forbids himself to let go. There won’t be any subtle, embarrassed shuffling into the showers tonight. Or not until much later, when he’s alone with his thoughts, at least.

He feels the underpart of her bra with one finger at first, then gradually brings the rest of his hand to it, slowly covering it, feeling the cotton beneath his fingertips. Ginny’s tongue slips into his mouth and his hand suddenly jolts to cup her breast sooner than he’d planned and he moans because it’s wonderful and different at the same time. He’s felt her over her robes before, light touches during their snogging sessions, and once even over her shirt. But this is exciting and different, her skin so warm and soft, oh god, it doesn’t even begin to compare.

Harry chances another squeeze, another fondle and instantly groans, ah, he’s about to combust. 

Ginny’s hands are in his hair as he roams inside her bra, encouraged by her pants, her moans inside his mouth, the tight grip of her thighs, her nipples hard beneath his palms. His thumb circles one nipple, desperate to feel more, to discover more of her and Ginny calls his name. 

“Harry, I -”

“Yes?” He pants, pressing into her over her clothes, drags his mouth to her jaw, behind her ear. 

It takes a moment before his eyes adjust to the near darkness; he’d been squeezing them so tightly shut he’d barely realised they’ve been hooked on pure feeling, on the electrifying shocks discovering new patches of skin, new soft places to kiss and grip provided for them.

He raises his green eyes to her flushed face, her burning cheeks, the mortified look in her eyes he distinguishes through the raw black of the classroom and, oh - he understands. 

“I’ll - erm,” Harry stumbles for his words and finally settles for silence. He slowly raises himself from her, focused on righting his clothes to give her a moment to recover. 

When she looks more comfortable, when she’s not blushing as furiously, Harry smiles at her and gently lifts her chin to capture her lips, guessing their contour through the darkness. He may not have the right words, but he really, truly hopes she knows. Knows how he feels and how much she means to him and that he’d wait any amount of time for her. They don’t need to hurry anywhere.

He brings the back of her hand to his cheek, then to his lips before he helps her down and places a kiss at the top of her head, lingers there, high on her flowery scent. 

Harry continues to hold her hand while they take their time returning to the Common Room, stealing kisses and muffling laughter on their way as the echoes of their footsteps reverberate along dark Castle halls. 


	10. June

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> jkr made us do this

The first days of June brought uncommonly clear skies and warm weather over Hogwarts and Harry had felt alight with happiness. The hours he used to invest into Quidditch now turned into time spent with Ginny, glorious hours of being together, of enjoying each other, of unbounded exploring of one another. The tips of his fingers tickled and an unbearingly wide grin stuck to his face every time he thought about it. It was bliss.

The first Monday of June brings with it the sunniest day of the year so far and absolutely no interest for the remaining classes the Sixth Years still had on their hands. Naturally, Harry’s jittery all throughout the day and outright buzzing by the last excruciating hour he needs to spend in the company of what feels like everybody else but Ginny, with Ron throwing him withering looks and the occasional side eye.

Which turns into a full on stink eye when class is over and Harry all but sprints out, book bag strapped around his neck. It’s fortunate it doesn’t catch on the door knob and throttles him because that would have definitely put a break on Harry’s verve to jump into Ginny’s welcoming arms and (if he can admit it) glue his face to her freckly, beautiful one.

“What took you?” Ginny grins as Harry drops next to her, short out of breath. 

She doesn’t wait for Harry’s response but slants her lips over his, tugs him to her by the collar of his robes and he laughs against her mouth. 

“Missed me, then?”

“Thought I might’ve combusted during Charms,” she gasps between kisses and lightly bites into his lower lip before she adds, “But shush now, let’s talk later.”

Harry eagerly nods his approval. There really isn’t a moment to spare as it miraculously happens to be just them in that particular spot by the lake, nicely hidden from prying or, even worse, brotherly eyes by the bushes they’ve been making good use of ever since May.

The sun sets, casting orange and red hues over the rippling waters, and Harry marvels at the way the light catches in her hair. He traces his hands through it, brushing it between his fingers tips, feeling its softness.

Then Ginny sucks at a sensitive spot at the base of his neck and Harry moans, brings her face back to his quickly, hands knitting once again through her hair.

Her arms circle round him and she raises on her knees, suddenly towering over him, getting closer and closer until she straddles him, robes sliding high up her legs. Harry lowers himself on his elbows, gaping at the sight of Ginny sat on top of him.

Bold as it might sound, he’s a bit used to having her wrapped around him as he kisses down her face, her neck, her chest. But her over him, oh, it’s so different and so good, Harry can’t help the moan that escapes his lips, the utter heat that envelopes him at the sight of her watching him intensely, deep brown eyes darkened, suddenly ablaze.

Ginny takes his hands and places them on her knees, presses slightly to encourage him to go further, up and up until he reaches under her skirt and brushes over her thighs, his heart beating deafeningly. She dips her head to kiss him, her hands into his hair as she lowers a bit more, presses herself into Harry. He moans again.

Harry grips her thighs and deepens the kiss, slips his tongue into her mouth and Ginny responds in earnest, her own tongue feeling his over and over again until her hips buckle and Harry’s grip turns tighter still.

He’s fairly certain she can fully feel the state of him and it’s probably what makes her press onto him harder and him slide his palms higher until they brush over the cotton of her knickers and quickly rest at her hips.

“Do that again,” Ginny sighs into his mouth and Harry obliges with trembling hands. 

He moves his thumb over her skin, stopping a moment to better feel where the cotton material hugs her hips. Then, shily he follows the line of her knickers until his thumb rests on a spot that makes her whimper over him, moan against his lips. He holds still, doesn’t dare move for fear of his own body betraying him, breaking the spell.

Harry breathes hard and Ginny’s quick to catch his lower lip between her teeth, her hands grasping at his shoulders, his robes frantically. So he rolls them over and now it’s him who's pressing into her, Ginny’s legs wrapping around him, her skirt and robes bunching up to reveal what Harry’s previously felt under his fingertips. 

“Ginny,” Harry groans and closes his eyes to kiss her again, one hand traveling over the back of her thigh. Her skin is soft and warm and Harry feels the need to squeeze, to feel everything. 

A whirlwind of colours and emotions explodes inside his brain when her hand sneaks between them, grasping him through his robes for the very first time. His gaze turns blank, he’s stunned for a few seconds before he recovers and rolls off her in a haste.

“Alright?” Ginny gasps, her breathing uneven, chest rising fastly. Her cheeks are tinged pink and her hair’s a mess, robes still slid up enough for Harry to glimpse a patch of pink cotton underneath. He quickly looks away.

“A bit too much actually,” he says, trying on a sheepish smile, pleading with himself to block the mortified feeling that’s threatening to take over him. Harry wills himself not to shut down in front of her, that she’d made light of the situation when it happened to her in that deserted classroom a week prior, that it’s all proof of how well suited they are for each other, of how much he’s attracted to her.

Ginny, on the other hand, looks self-conscious, her eyes darting away from his face as she worries her bottom lip between her teeth - a telltale sign of being insecure, Harry’s come to notice. 

“Did I move too fast? We can take it slower, if you’d like, I didn’t mean -”

“No! God, no,” Harry hurries to comfort her, drapes an arm over her shoulders as he mentally kicks himself for making her feel like she’s done something wrong when all she’d ever done to him was good and amazing and felt bloody brilliant. “Not too high on stamina, ‘s all,” he mumbles, ignoring the scorching sensation taking over his face, his ears.

“Oh,” Ginny’s eyes dart back to his and she blushes a bit before a little smile stretches on her face, getting bigger and bigger until it’s a dazzling grin, blindingly beautiful to Harry. So he kisses her, deep and meaningful, arm still around her shoulders.

The first star of the night shines over them when Harry helps her up, brushes the grass from her robes and pats down his own mess of a hair. 

Their hands link as they walk silently towards the Castle, stomach rumbling with heat and hunger.

“You comfortable with all this?” Harry squeezes her hand lightly, head dipping a bit to catch the expression on her face.

She looks surprised, then laughs heartily, a little spring in her step as she replies, “I honestly thought I might be making you uncomfortable with all the kissing and touching and, you know,” Ginny pauses to collect her words, the faintest hint of embarrassment ghosting over her features, “all the other stuff we’re doing.”

“The other stuff, hmm?” Harry grins, tries his best to wink.

“Don’t be a prick,” Ginny laughs, elbowing him playfully.

“I’m not, I just honestly don’t know what you mean. I might need a more detailed explanation.”

He’s the embodiment of innocence as he looks at her with big emerald eyes, dimple forming in one cheek as Harry smiles sweetly. Immediately he yelps because Ginny’s just thrown her school bag at him and proceeded to chase him down the grounds, rightly calling him ‘a lying little tosser’, with Harry pausing in his tracks enough to inform her he takes offense at the use of ‘little’.

Their happy shrieks reverberate against the Castle walls as Ginny throws her shoes at him with the double purpose of smacking him over the head and allowing her to run faster, and Harry pivots and jumps and engages all the Quidditch training tactics he’s ever learned to make a clean escape. Ultimately, they both burst through the ancient doors barefoot, shoes and bags forgotten, sniggering as McGonagall hurries to lay down the law.

“Fifty points from Gryffindor for walking barefoot,” Ginny huffs, amusement still dancing in her eyes.

“I think the term employed was ‘inappropriate student attire’,” Harry whispers, his lips trembling from the effort of keeping at bay the wild waves of laughter smacking on the inside of his chest.

They both burst into a loud fit of giggles when they catch each other’s eye though, doubling over even as a harried looking Hermione ushers them out of the Great Hall, maniacally hissing about losing enough house points for the day.

* * *

By some miracle of good fortune, Harry finds himself with the Sixth Year Boys’ Dorm entirely to himself. Ron’s off somewhere pretending to study so he can get one on one time with Hermione, and the rest of his roommates...he’s not particularly invested in their whereabouts so long as they’re not here. 

It’s not that Harry hates being around people, but it can become grating, being in the constant awareness of other humans. Never a moment to think about scratching your arse in peace. Let alone actually doing it. Or other similar private needs. Anyway. 

Ginny’s off with Luna and despite his urges - namely to be around Ginny as much as humanly possible without being expelled - he knows they should probably leave each other some time to be separate. This may be his first dating relationship but he’s hyper aware of being smothering. Perhaps it’s not good how very much the thought niggles at the back of his mind, the idea that someday everyone he cares about will eventually tire of him and the trouble he brings, but it’s there nonetheless. 

His musings are a bit darker than one would expect from a teen bloke left to his own devices in an empty dorm room, but Harry’s for the most part abandoned the idea that he’s normal. Much as he wants to be ‘just Harry,’ it seems every passing day, month, and year, it’s less and less likely. 

Except when he’s with Ginny. 

She somehow manages to see him, really see him for everything he is, and treat him like he’s normal Harry. Teasing him, laughing together, snogging him ‘til his feet go numb, and dressing him down as necessary. In both senses of the term. And if Harry’s engaging in a moment of honesty, his attraction stirs at either version.

Though it is a boring choice, Harry finds himself preparing for a late afternoon, pre-dinner nap, ditching revising and homework without a trace of regret. He’s just on the fuzzy edge of sleep when a soft knock sounds at the door. 

Before he can do much beyond pushing up to his elbows and gaping in confusion, the door creaks open and the Weasley he least expects and is most excited to see slips inside.

“How’s things, Harry?”

His grin falls infinitesimally as he tries to recall whether he’s got dirty pants lying about, but Ginny seems too intent on her purpose to notice.

In a few quick strides, she’s at his bedside and for the first time since she entered the room seems to be awaiting permission. Harry ruffles his hair and scoots over a little on the mattress. “What did you and Luna get up to?”

Ginny shrugs, one finger following the brocade pattern of his coverlet. “Not much, chatted some, shared biscuits from Mum, then she had to go meet Hagrid.”

“I don’t recall Luna getting detention.”

Smiling, Ginny finally takes the plunge and settles her bum on the edge of the bed. “Nah, Hagrid just lets her follow on his nightly walk so she can look for - ” Ginny’s voice trails off as her eyes finally leave the blankets and lock with Harry’s. 

A lump forms in his throat and he can’t seem to find anything to do or say. Suddenly his hands feel too big for his body and the only word in his mind is ‘please’. Or maybe Ginny.

“Sorry, I - “ she swallows and slowly her tracing finger circles toward Harry’s hand where it lies limply against his thigh, “I can’t quite remember what Luna was on the hunt for.”

Harry shakes his head and sits up further, a bit too abrupt as he nearly unseats Ginny. At the last moment his hands shoot to grab her arms and steady her. His voice is a bit strangled when he answers, “That’s alright. I, uh - Luna’ll surely fill us in.”

Somehow they’re closer now and Harry feels his heart practically pounding out of his chest while Ginny’s breaths tickle his jaw. “Right - of course.”

And then, like so many times before, that fiery, wild, hurricane that is Ginny Weasley has his mind gone haywire while her lips slant over his. They’ve still not agreed on which of them started that first kiss however many hours, days, weeks ago, but Harry won’t argue that this encounter is one hundred percent Ginny Weasley initiated. If there’s anything he’s learned over their too short time together, it’s that Harry is fully on board with an endless lifetime of Ginny and every bit of her unstoppable force of nature ways. 

Now though, he’s swept up in the storm and he might have been a bit of a fumbling mess to begin with but they’ve learned together and there are certain things he’s gotten quite good with over the course of their relationship. So when Ginny looms overhead, knees on either side of his hips and tongue toying with his, he’s no longer a blubbering mess. He’s got moves now.

With a smooth twist, he executes one such maneuver, which ends with Ginny staring up at him wide eyed and cheeks flushed. “Well, look at you.”

Harry’s laugh turns to a groan against Ginny’s lips when her hips rise to meet his in a rolling motion that makes him see stars. 

Their kisses become more desperate, shared breaths just as much as presses of lips. While her hands run through his hair, his slide up Ginny’s milky, freckled legs until he rucks up her skirt and those damn pink knickers stare back at him.

Except now, he’s not nervous, and when he looks into Ginny’s eyes he sees the same certainty he feels evident in her deep brown irises.

It feels like a blur, her hands on the waistband of his trousers, his fingers tugging at her knickers, and suddenly he finds his lips leaving hers and slowly mapping the curves of her chest. She sighs when he reaches the edge of pale pink cotton, allowing him to bury himself in her flowery scent, but soon becomes impatient.

A sharp tug at his hair signals she’s tired of waiting as they have and Harry’s ready too. It just feels right this time. 

When her palm slips inside his pants and he shudders in her grip, his face buried against her neck so he doesn’t see the door slam open. 

But he does hear it, and immediately jolts into action, raised on his elbows and blinking wildly at Ron in the doorway. Some mix of an apology and random swearing is about to leave his lips when Harry glances back down at Ginny and finds...no Ginny. Just a slightly drool-damp pillow clutched to his chest. Apparently he’s gotten quite friendly with his bed dressings this afternoon.

Bloody hell. 

Regardless, he’ll need a moment to...collect himself before he addresses whatever drama Ron and Hermione have managed to drum up in the last half hour. 

“Dinner, mate,” Ron says, “Rumor has it there’s those mashed potatoes with cheese and bacon. Don’t want to miss. Seamus has been a damn hog lately.”

Harry slumps against the bed and nods, hopefully concealing himself enough to avoid a horrifying conversation that would scar both parties. “Go on. I’ve got to wake up a bit. Detention’s wiped me out. If I try the stairs in my current state I’ll fall to my death.”

Ron snickers. “Snape would love that,” he grimaces, “Actually, Dean might too.”

Harry rolls his eyes and Ron continues, “I’m not particularly chuffed about anybody but - well, what right has Dean got, right? Plus you’re Harry. Clearly - “ Ron flushes and lets the thought drop. “I’ll save you some potatoes. Come down quick though. Don’t want them to get cold.”

“Right, because it’s not like we’re wizards,” Harry teases as Ron flips him off and disappears into the hallway.

Glancing down at his lap, Harry murmurs, “Well you heard him, come down quick.”

* * *

Harry’s become more well acquainted with the trees on the bank of the Great Lake in the last month than his entire previous five years at Hogwarts. Sure he’s swum with the merpeople, chased some Death Eaters, and claimed a warm spot in the grass a few times. But there’s something about lying in the sun with Ginny that instantly stirs a delicious feeling of contentment like he’s never thought possible. 

And lest it begin to seem that Harry’s utterly incapable of a thought that isn’t completely and entirely focused on Ginny, they’ve ended up lounging like lumps with Ron and Hermione in tow. It’s all rather homey and relaxing and Harry could probably lie here forever. 

Especially since in his reclined position he can’t see Ron’s face which every so often twists into a grimace. Harry’s a bit proud of Ron, honestly. Since all of this started, he’s adjusted fairly well. The first time Harry walked into the dorm room after kissing Ginny, Ron tossed a pillow in his face with the type of force Harry longed to wrench from his best mate on the pitch, but otherwise it seems most violent impulses are under control. There have been a few snide remarks of course, but Ginny volleys back with that sass Harry really finds attractive, and soon they’re either all laughing or Harry’s too distracted by Ginny’s lips to care much.

Now, however many blissful weeks in, they’ve reached something of a detente and Ron manages to not fume when Ginny pulls Harry’s head into her lap and runs her fingers through his hair. Which is good because he could happily live in this position.

The weather is beautiful enough that even Hermione’s been tempted to leave the library, albeit with books and notes in tow, and so the foursome have claimed a spot along the water. By some unspoken agreement, Harry and Ginny carefully guided the group away from the tree where some of their more intimate explorations have taken place. Too many memories to drum up in mixed company. Although Harry’s mind is never far from them…

When Ginny’s fingertips slip past Harry’s loosened collar and tie, Harry hears Ron let out a gag, quickly followed by a low ‘oof.’

“What the hell Hermione?”

“Do be mature.”

“I’m not the one who’s feeling Harry up like he’s a - ”

Harry laughs and winks at Ginny. “While I do appreciate you protecting my honour, Ron, I promise you Ginny has assured me of only her noblest intentions.”

Ginny lets her hand rest over Harry’s bounding heart and smiles at Hermione dangerously. “Don’t think I missed those sharp moves. You could make a great Beater.”

“I keep telling her I’ll give her a few rides on my broom and it’ll be like second nature - ”

While Ginny jerks to attention like a hunting dog fixed on a scent, Harry jolts into a sitting position, “A few what on your what?”

Hermione blinks, “A few rides on his - oh. Oh, do be mature.”

It takes Ron a few extra seconds to catch on and then he flushes beetroot from his neck upward. “Oh, damn it Harry. Don’t be such a ninny.”

“‘Ninny,’ nice one Ronniekins,” Ginny teases, tossing a stick at her brother, “Pick that up from Aunt Muriel.”

“Sorry I’m not as macho as loverboy.”

Harry drags Ginny closer as the wind whips up a little off the lake while she folds her hair into a loose plait. “I’ll give you the name of my tattoo place. We can get you something nice to hide your little bald chest.”

“Yeah, like you’ve got anything exciting going on under there.”

Ginny squeezes Harry’s thigh. “Oh, I assure you he’s got plenty to be excited about.”

Even Hermione winces at that, eventually sharing a commiserating glance with Ron. Honestly, Harry would feel worse if they both didn’t have something with just as much potential to be occasionally nauseating staring them right in the face. Everyone should take relationship advice from him - pine and angst for nine or so months, then finally snog in front of a large group, preferably after some victorious event, then proceed to be gloriously happy. Harry highly recommends it. 

Life, for once, feels right.

* * *

“You arsehole,” Ron jabs Harry with his foot just as he is drifting asleep, ready to enjoy what would be no doubt another of his Ginny centred dreams.

“Sweet dreams to you, too, Ronnie love,” Harry grunts, rubs at his ankle. Shit, Ron’s feet are long. Perhaps if Harry pushes it any more in front of him, he’ll wake up with Ron’s foot up his arse one night. 

Oh, god, what if he moans Ginny’s name in the dead of night and then he wakes up with Ron’s foot in his mouth? Who knows how much the plonker can stretch his legs.

“Zip it. What was all that about you having plenty to be excited about, that rubbish Ginny was yapping about earlier?” Ron hisses, hunched over his bed to stare directly into Harry’s bleary face.

Harry scans the room quickly to check if all their dorm mates are sound asleep and snoring. And they are, the lucky bastards.

“Why? Want a private show?”

“Oh, bugger off.”

“Nah, I don’t think so. And if we’re laying it thick, how ‘bout you giving Hermione a few rides on the broom, eh? What was that about?”

“Good night,” Ron splutters and Harry grins, pleased.

“Yeah, thought as much. Night night, Ron mate.”

* * *

His pulse strums up when he reads Dumbledore’s note and quickly the image of the last moments he spent with Ginny, her mouth on his, her fingers tightly twisted in his hair as his palms roamed at her chest, her muffled pants as they kissed and touched against a Castle wall, everything runs before his eyes and his mind screams at him that it might’ve been the last time. Their last kiss, their last anything. 

Harry knows he might not come back from this. Yet still he walks in silence, the rumbling noise inside his mind the only sounds he hears. 

And then there’s nothing left; complete blank, intense white noise as they return to Hogwarts, battered, scarred and bloody. Nothing as he watches Dumbledore die, nothing as he looks directly into Draco’s white, horror struck face. But intense, boiling hatred as he looks into Snape’s. 

Harry nearly turns into a murderer that night, he nearly tears his own heart out, spits his brains out from the pain. The thought of Ginny, the sound of her voice - the only things that keep him teetering on the edge.

He barely pretends to be present as Hermione announces her uncovering of the Prince’s mystery, a faint lurching sensation in his stomach as he listens. Harry figures he shouldn’t be surprised; after all, it seems like Snape’s linked to so many pieces of puzzle all throughout his life, destroying what he can, taking even the smallest of joys away from Harry. 

He pours his anger and fury into their discussion of Snape, unafraid to let slip how much he hates him, how his mind is conjuring plans and schemes of getting him, the sooner the better.

It’s only the calming sound of Ginny’s laughter that soothes the rippling of dark waves inside his mind, the hurricane shattering his soul. She giggles when Harry makes up an excuse about Fleur being ugly and he smiles involuntarily at the sound. Then he takes her by the hand, takes her to that classroom they’ve shared before. He takes her to the last moment of blissful intimacy they’ll have together, but he’s too much of a coward to tell her that. Harry already knows it, he knows what he needs to do, but he can’t tell her that. Not yet.

Instead, he buries his face into her hair, draws in that flowery scent that’s always made him think of her, and holds her close to his heart as his eyes prickle and his mouth quivers.

She doesn’t say anything either but sits with him in silence, arms tightly bound around his middle. They’re too afraid to speak.

Her hands pull at the hem of his shirt and Harry lets her take it off, holds her as she kisses his shoulders, the bruises on his arms, the swollen patches of skin peppered on his chest. 

“Ginny,” Harry sighs as her lips carefully map the remnants of what happened in that cave, and she takes a step back, gazes at him once, then lifts up her shirt to shove it away too. Her bra follows after and Harry’s heart leaps.

It’s the first time he sees her so, and his sad green eyes are hungry to take in, to remember everything; every detail, every freckle, every cluster of little dots splattered over her skin, her clavicle, her beautiful breasts.

Then she closes the distance between them to hold him tightly to her, as he holds her to him. Harry and Ginny, one heart over the other, two frightened young hearts beating against each other, love shared through skin.

They sit like that for a long time, shivering in each other’s arms but not brave enough to let go. They don’t cry, they don’t talk, just clutch at each other, fingers gripping viciously at the other’s back, silently screaming: don’t let go. Just don’t go, don’t leave, don’t leave me.

Finally, Harry draws a sharp breath in, tips her chin up and kisses her deeply, shuddering at the feel of her breasts moving slightly against his chest. Then slowly he retrieves their clothes and hands Ginny her own, gently turning her with her back to him to help her dress. 

He clasps her bra and leaves a kiss on her right shoulder, pushing her long red hair to one side. Harry then slides her shirt gingerly over her head, careful with her arms, and rolls it back until it hides the little freckles peppered over the small of her back, over the rounding contours of her hips. He puts his shirt back on too.

Even if he knows that it’ll be days, months, years maybe when he’ll yearn for her touch, when he’ll curse himself for not having kissed those freckles one last time, felt her skin beneath his palms, grip her and undress her and make love to her when she offered him the chance; even if he knows that, he can’t possibly do it, he forbids himself to do it.

Because Harry also knows he could never live with himself if he did that only to leave her behind right after. He could never live with that.

Hand in hand, they walk back to the Common Room and Ginny raises on her tiptoes to kiss Harry long and deeply at the bottom of the stairs before they say good night. They’d meet again in the morning, pained and silent one next to the other at the funeral.

Harry doesn’t close his eyes that night.

* * *

Harry can’t remember much of Dumbledore’s funeral besides the heartache, the pain, the voices inside his head that scream so loud, that pound at his skull in a perpetual motion like his very conscience wants to run away from him, to break away.

But then again, how could he do or feel or remember anything else? He buried his mentor today. 

And once again, Harry’s on his own. He has to, he must be, he needs to keep them all safe.

His eyes drift to Ginny and his heart breaks even further. For the last couple days he tried to tell himself it will be like a bandaid; but even in his heart of hearts Harry knows that’s nothing but a terrible lie. He’s always been a terrible liar. You’re a terrible liar, Roonil, she laughed and she was right. Now she deserves the truth.

But the thought that they could’ve had so much time together, a lifetime and a day, drives him mad, makes him so angry he wants to scream, to claw at anything until his nails break and his fingers bleed. How can he possibly live her behind?

He’s giving her a better life, Harry tells himself and immediately breaks, shatters to pieces inside his mind. He’s giving her a life without him because he doesn’t have one anymore. Not anymore - Voldemort’s taken it away from him, from them, from what they could’ve been.

The talk with Ginny leaves Harry numb and wishing she’d shouted at him, slap him even, hex him maybe; he would’ve been able to deal with that, he’d had so much practice at handling anger and rejection over his life, he could’ve handled that and carried on then.

Instead, she’d been understanding and kind and hid her tears, her own heartbreak. How could Harry ever be able to carry that with him, in his heart, for the rest of his life? How could he stand knowing he’d hurt another human, the girl he loved, yes, loved, hurt her beyond words or tears?

Lucky his life won’t last much longer, then.

Dejectedly, Harry talks to Scrimgeour, hates him for once again proposing he’d be the Ministry’s stooge, talks to Ron and Hermione, negotiates with them to stay behind, to live their lives. They have full lives ahead of them, the idiots. They have lives whereas Harry doesn’t, the bloody, blithering idiots.

He stares through the window on the ride from Hogwarts but he doesn’t see a thing. He takes in no details of the scenery, of the way the sun sets behind the hills and mountains. 

Harry only sees her face somewhere in the distance, broken and brave and staring back at him with sad brown eyes. Ginny...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> don't @ us, we want them to be happy forever too!


	11. July

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you asked for it, we give it to you, don’t be mad...

Harry thought he’d been through quite a series of unfortunate events throughout his relatively short life, some that’ve left him feeling embarrassed and in need to crawl into a hole and possibly die, and others that have left him a heartbeat away from turning rogue and going after Voldemort guns ablazing. But this, Harry comes to accept, is the worst so far.

Not only did six other people suddenly become acquainted with his most...intimate parts, but two of them happened to be Fred and George. Judging by the grins they’re both sporting, Harry’s in for a hellish summer - or however long he’d be spending at the Burrow before jumping recklessly into what probably will be his death.

Later, when the firewhiskey’s numbed his heart, when he’s too tired and tipsy to scream at everyone and claw at himself to grip the pain and throw it out, Harry lets the images of Hedwig and Mad-Eye wash over him like muddy waters clashing against the shore. The two first soldiers of the war - and Harry wonders how many more there’ll be until a skinny, averagely skilled, not-special almost seventeen year old serves justice and catches the bad guy for good.

A bitter laugh rolls down his throat and Harry shakes his head in self-loath, marveling at how impossibly stupid everyone has to be to put all their trust in him.

Harry starts as he feels a small hand on his shoulder - Ginny’s. As she’d done earlier, instead of saying something or asking him what’s wrong, Ginny takes his hand as she sits down next to him on the front steps. And, like earlier, her touch has a calming effect on him, steering his thoughts away from self-destruction and towards the blissful, golden days they’ve spent together.

But most of all he remembers her as she’d been on their last shared moment, her sad eyes and her bare chest, giving herself entirely to him. And just like then, his heart battles his mind, takes it to a savage war where what he wants to do and what he must do almost blend in, blurred around the edges.

He remembers her standing before him, waiting for him to touch, to feel, to melt into her and he remembers that he couldn’t do it then. He can’t do it now either.

It’s as if Ginny reads his mind because she squeezes his hand tighter and, looking bravely into his eyes as her bottom lip quivers, she says, “You know, I’d really wanted...that to happen then.”

Harry’s breath catches and he nearly crashes his lips to hers, nearly loves her right there, on her parents’ front porch. But instead he mumbles, his voice too shallow to meet the unwavering courage etched in hers, “Ginny, I - ah. Please know that putting an end to this,” he gestures between the two of them, a deep crease forming between his eyebrows, “is the hardest thing I’ve ever done.”

“An end?” Ginny lifts her brow, her brown eyes blazing.

“Yes. It’s how it has to be,” Harry retorts, his voice a little higher and he immediately hates himself for it.

“Why?”

“Because it must. Because you’re not safe if you’re with me. Because I couldn’t live knowing that they’ve hurt you because of me.”

Although he’s careful to keep his voice low, the words erupt like barks from his mouth, clipped and loaded with ill concealed anger. And when she starts protesting that she doesn’t care for her life, that she can take care of herself, Harry loses his mind for a moment and his vision darkens suddenly, he’s out of breath.

He’s astonished to discover that he’d gripped her shoulders sharply and had probably shaken her, the anger boiling in his chest taking over his actions. Ginny stares back at him for a moment, pained and shocked, then smashes her mouth onto his with such force it hurts them both. Harry’s arms immediately let go of her, falling limply at his sides.

She ends the kiss just as quickly and shoots him a look that Harry can’t entirely describe - a little wounded, a little cross, and most of all a steel resolve that sends him into a panicked frenzy because he doesn’t know if she’ll run after him, or fight her own battle or, the most terrifying of them all...if she’ll just forget him.

Ginny smacks the door behind her before he can get a chance to apologise for being a crass prick or ask her what she’d just decided. Sighing deeply, Harry admits he really does deserve the door smacking. Why did he ever think that this, whatever this was, could’ve possibly been better than admitting that he loves her, so much that he feels a big part of him is missing when she’s not there, so much that his heart is broken beyond repair.

Because he’s a stupid prat with a hero complex, that’s why.

“What’s with the face, Medium Sized?” Fred grins at him when Harry finally drags his feet back inside. 

Harry simply flips him and starts climbing the stairs all the way to Ron’s room. He’s fairly certain there’ll be enough other occasions for Fred and George to take the mickey out of him on accounts of his physique, but today he’s just not up to it. 

An unsettling thought crosses his mind before he drifts to what he has no doubt would be an unrestful sleep: being split into seven, even if by means of Polyjuice, appears to him not so different than what Voldermort’s attempted to do. It’s truly a thought that weighs tangibly on the self-hate load for many reasons, but most of all it’s the fact that Harry keeps finding similarities between him and Riddle every time he stops to think about it. And that makes him retch right there, near the camp bed he’d been sleeping on summer after summer since someone had seen enough good in him to have him rescued from the Dursleys - and, quite truthfully, from himself.

Somehow there’s not much opportunity for wallowing when he wakes up as Mrs Weasley seems to have devised the cleaning schedule from hell to keep them occupied and leave no room for mysterious plots to be cooked up between Ron, Hermione and himself. And honestly? Harry’s a little grateful for that. 

The blazing sun overhead casts an orange glow behind Harry’s eyelids at the end of the day, warms the metal rims of his glasses where they press against his flushed cheeks. For a minute, while Ron and Ginny’s mingled laughter still colors the air and Harry’s breaths are still calming, it’s almost like he’s got a normal life again. Like the world isn’t silently waiting for him to take out a maniac they haven’t managed in two decades. 

And for a minute, maybe more, Harry thinks he can let himself have it and forget about yesterday, forget about all the bad days he’d ever had. He’s already given up so much, is preparing to give up more when he heads out alone to finish what Dumbledore started, he lets himself be selfish. Only a little longer. 

“Alright over there, old man?” Ginny’s voice calls out.

Harry cracks one eye open and finds Ginny smirking at him, hair wild around her face, braid half undone. “I’m just a year older.”

“A year is a long time,” Ginny shrugs and winks, “Grandpa.”

“Whatever happened to respecting your elders, then?”

Hermione returns from the house with lemonade in hand and a smile on her lips, “Are we back to this again?”

“Yes. Harry is an old man and I proved it by totally kicking his bum three games in a row.”

Harry pushes up onto his elbows and blinks slowly. “First, you’re a trained Chaser and I’m not. Second, Hermione was my Keeper. And we all know what that means.”

“Don’t be mean,” Ron puts in as he gulps at his lemonade, stray droplets falling over his cheeks. Hermione gives him an approving nod and that probably genetic Weasley smirk slides across Ron’s face, “Hermione can’t help being allergic to the Quaffle.”

“Oh bugger off, Ronald,” Hermione grunts, kicking Ron’s thigh as she claims a place in the grass. 

Comfortable quiet falls over them, the trees in the grove swaying with the wind as it carries the scent of wildflowers over the yard. With the sweet tang of lemonade on his tongue, Harry truly feels a sense of relaxation, of contentment that people tend to associate with summer. It’s borrowed time he can't bring himself to give up.

As if Ginny can read his mind, as if she knows his overthinking, overworked mind is settling on its usual dark track, she nudges his side with the toe of her trainer. “So all I’ve heard so far is a lot of excuses, and I’m nothing if not an excuse eliminator.”

“That’s one thing to call it,” Ron snorts.

“Anyway,” Ginny says with a roll of her eyes, “How about we have a go with the Snitch. Although we’ve seen I’m no slouch as a Seeker either.”

Her eyes catch his and he knows they’re both thrown back to that day, the sunlit weeks that followed, the stolen time. And her smile is a little dimmed when she stands and offers him a hand up, “Let’s put you to the test, eh?”

It’s like she wants him to know she’s momentarily forgot about the day before too, about his words and about her pleas. 

So Harry accepts the hand up and ignores Hermione’s pointed stare and mumbles about ‘idiots with self destructive tendencies.’ He has a sudden death challenge to win after all.

The Snitch is for practice, and probably older than any of the foursome, but it does the job. It’s a bit sluggish taking turns, so there’s an advantage to catching it there, but the old thing has no trouble darting off and hiding before Hermione’s finished her last eye roll aimed at Harry.

Ginny doesn’t need to take her eyes off the horizon for the trash talk to begin, mostly the usual shots at his age and eyesight. Ron likes a good gangly something thrown in there, but Ginny’s never been one for poking fun at Harry’s physique. In fact, she seemed to like it well enough - before Harry’s life kicked in with its usual ‘pull the rug out’ disappointing development.

They circle in the air for who knows how long and Harry gives as good as he gets, asking things like whether Ginny can find balls smaller than six inches wide. But when he mentions ‘balls’ Ginny gives him a dangerous look he knows means something scandalous is about to leave her lips - until they light in victory.

He twists quickly and finds the Snitch bobbing in the air, as if it’s about to flit over for a visit with Luna and her dirigible plums. 

Though Ginny spotted the Snitch first, Harry’s definitely a few paces closer and he’s fast on the uptake so they’re basically neck in neck, screaming toward the little ball.

Ginny nudges his shoulder a bit with hers, no cobbing, but her set jaw and cheeky grin are just as dangerous. Harry’s so caught up he can barely hear Ron and Hermione’s shouts from below - who they’re rooting for is undetermined - all he knows is the push of the air against his ears, the pounding blood in his veins, and Ginny flying at his side like a comet.

At the last second, she lowers herself just a bit closer to the broom and slips past him so her fist closes around the Snitch. So last second in fact, that his hand closes on top of hers. He can’t seem to release his grip and Ginny doesn’t pull away, even as the wings flutter against their palms. “Gotcha, Potter. No flashy mouth tricks - just quality play.”

Her whiskey eyes find his and if he thought his heart pounded uncontrollably before, now it may as well be beating out of his chest. His thumb brushes over top of hers and it feels like all his insides are in his throat as he murmurs, “Nice catch.”

“I don’t know another kind.”

Somehow, his grip slides to her wrist and she’s released the Snitch to feebly fly over the swaying grasses. Then her hand is around his forearm and they’re breaths apart. “Ginny - ”

Whatever he was going to say, it’s now lost to the summer air as Ron’s voice sounds from below, beckoning them inside.

They spend the little time left of July planning and preparing for the moment they’ll have to leave everything behind, which, to Harry, is in a way exactly what he needs simply because it doesn’t offer much room to interact with Ginny. It’s odd how seeing her now makes his heart leap with happiness and then immediately twist with sadness and guilt.

Even though it’s hard not to catch her eye at dinner, especially when the table’s too packed with people, close members from the Order, and no one can notice. Or when little Gabrielle Delacour arrives with her parents and turns her Veela charm on Harry; the small display of jealousy from Ginny revives the old monster nestled in his chest, gives Harry an extra spring in his step for the rest of the day. She cares enough to show the rest of the world he’s off limits. Only Ron’s withering look wipes the stupid grin plastered on his face.

“Should I be fighting off smitten women having a go at you or is this a girlfriend only task?” 

Harry stops in his tracks and looks over his shoulder. He sees Ginny, her hair messily twisted in a bun at the top of her head, leaning against the doorframe of her room and staring after him intently. He also notices the puffiness around her eyes that makes the dark rings under them more evident. His insides churn painfully.

“I don’t think women have ever been smitten when it comes to me. I rather tend to attract the usual love potion spiked chocolates kind of people,” Harry shrugs as he fully turns around to face her, one hand gripping at the railing. He feels as though he needs to tether himself to something or else he might just run to her and take her in his arms and kiss her tired eyes till she’s sound asleep and safely pressed against his chest.

Ginny lets out a dejected chuckle, “Clearly you’re not at all familiar with Hogwarts bathroom talk.”

“Oh?”

“But it’s somehow so typical of you to be oblivious of your charms,” Ginny shrugs and Harry forgets himself enough to let a smile stretch onto his face.

“My charms?”

“I believe tall, dark and handsome were uttered here and there,” she smiles a bit as her eyes lock with his and instantly a series of intimate moments they’ve shared passes before his eyes. “But they’re all wrong.”

“They are?” Harry parrots stupidly, heat spreading all over his chest, his face, to the tips of his ears.

“Yeah,” Ginny nods and covers one arm with the palm of her other, brushes it from her shoulder to her elbow as her lips slightly quiver. “It’s actually your eyes. Good night, Harry.”

And just like that she twirls on her heels and closes the door right after her. Harry can hear the springs of the mattress lamenting faintly and tries with all his might not to imagine her crushed on her bed, crying.

He doesn’t even realise it’s his birthday until the sun shakes him out of the poor sleep he’d managed to get once his mind got too tired of playing thousands of different versions of how he might die, how we might bring sorrow and death upon others, all peppered with instances of Ginny crying. 

Huh, at least now he can do magic without being traced. Cheers to surviving this long and successfully eliminating the option of rotting in Azkaban every time he feels like actually being a wizard.

Harry gets to enjoy a bit of lightheartedness and bask in other people’s relationship problems when Ron gifts him a book essentially on how to pick up women and not long after Hermione publicly announces she’s about to pack Ron’s pants as soon as they get out of the washer. Unfortunately, he can’t share neither of those moments with Ginny as she’s not there…

Soon enough he locates her when she calls him to her room and Harry steps inside aware of his faint trembling. He comments on the view from her windows and she ignores him, like she should. Who’s invited into their former girlfriend’s bedroom and steers the conversation towards scenery?

A bloody idiot, that’s who.

She mentions Veelas again and his head starts spinning as Ginny looks at him with that blazing look on her face and it’s then when he knows it’s simply become impossible for him to step back. Harry kisses her as fiercely as she’s kissing him, ready to go where he’d previously forbidden himself to go with her, no longer able to control his mind, his body, its reactions to her. Harry’s ready to give himself away completely.

But before the thought of locking the door can cross his mind, before he can take this any further, the door bangs open and they break apart. Lust turns to anger and anger turns to guilt in Harry’s mind as he promises Ron he’s done, he’ll stay away, he’ll will himself to stop. He can’t keep doing this to her, he must never do it again.

An image of Ginny happily in love with another man invades his mind for the rest of the day, obsessing him, torturing him, the faceless man telling him nonchalantly that ‘you’ve lost her, mate’ as the two of them kiss deeply and turn their backs to Harry. They’d never could’ve had a future anyway...


	12. August

For all he’s just celebrated his birthday (and gotten the snog of his life from the girl of his dreams) Harry is admittedly a bit of a grump come August. While he’s certainly glad to be free of the Dursleys for the foreseeable future, there’s none of the building excitement that normally comes with a new year. And every time he sees Ginny it’s a bittersweet feeling.

Pining is one thing, wondering what you could have if you just did something about it; but loss is something else altogether. He knows exactly what it’s like to have the full brunt of Ginny’s sunshine bright smile turned on him, the feeling of her in his arms, and sad as it is to say, he simply tasted what it was like to be happy. And callous as it might sound, he almost forgot the horror of the world for a few short weeks.

So mildly to severely moody Harry skulks about the Burrow like a gloomy spectre in the days leading to Bill and Fleur’s wedding, daydreams filled with running away to chase down Horcruxes rather than the taste of Ginny’s lips on his.

It’s on one such circuit that he wanders into Fred and George’s room, aimless unless avoiding other people counts as a goal, and finds himself confronted with Ginny Weasley half zipped into a golden gown with her hair scooped over one shoulder and her eyes wide and inviting in the mirror. 

He sees a slight flush rise on her cheeks but whatever embarrassment she feels is quickly brushed aside - sadly he can’t seem to do the same, palms wet as they are - as she locks eyes with him through the mirror. “You know, I complain about Fleur, but I think I look pretty amazing in this.”

She flicks her eyebrows up playfully when he doesn’t say anything, just watches her stupidly. “Really, I can’t believe Mum has such severe wedding brain that she hasn’t banned me from showing this much of my ti-”

Harry chokes on his tongue. 

Ginny winks. “I’ll take your speechlessness as a compliment.”

While he wages an internal battle mainly filled with conflicting thoughts of ‘run away, drown yourself in the toilet’ and ‘sweep her in your arms and let her ravish you like she wanted to yesterday,’ Harry somehow manages to also drum up coherent language and grind it out into audible words. Mostly.

“You - well, I’ll say you’re the best I’ve seen a Weasley look in dress robes.”

Ginny fiddles with the zipper, “Wow, Harry. Flatter a girl. I'll tell you your hair looks better than Aunt Muriel’s, how about?”

Harry can’t keep the laugh from bubbling out of his chest, can’t ignore the pang at how very happy he seems to be when Ginny is around. He ruffles his hair. “Dunno, Gin. I think Muriel’s a fox.”

Absently, perhaps operating on some instinct he can’t control, Harry steps forward and drags the zip up her back, the tiny catches clicking together one by one. 

Ginny draws in a sharp breath and her lip seems to tremble in time with the stutter of his heart. Her voice is a bit dry, strangled, when she answers, “Don’t let her hear you say that or you’ll be my great uncle before you turn 18.”

It’s like a heavy weight falls into the pit of Harry’s stomach, seeing Ginny’s eyes shutter, considering how he might not see his next birthday; the minimal hope he has about having Ginny be part of his life in that hazy future.

And even with the gloom that seems to have settled over them in this little moment carved out from the world, Harry can’t help but marvel that someone seems to understand. And not because he’s screamed his lungs out or sulked his way into a sympathetic ear. He can see in her gaze that Ginny feels that darkness looming. 

Yet there’s a part of him, perhaps a stupid idealistic part, that thinks she’s still the silver lining. That maybe his hope isn’t completely lost.

Ginny smiles softly and winks. “Don’t worry. I’d rescue you before Muriel whisked you away.”

Harry clears his throat, voice low when he answers, “My hero.”

“Well Gryffindor chivalry and whatnot - you know how it works.”

A laugh rises in his chest, short like Sirius sometimes let out. Harry wonders if it was because Sirius was as surprised as he is now to feel happiness, even just a little. “Of course.”

Ginny quirks her brow. “Perhaps too well.”

Shrugging, Harry ruffles his hair. “It’s a blessing and a curse.”

To his surprise, she doesn’t laugh, doesn’t tease. Instead she steps close enough to cup his jaw, look at him in that way that not too long ago meant her lips would slant on his. Her thumb brushes against his skin gently while she gazes up at him. “Nah, just a blessing,” her smile is a little sad, “Or at least I think so most days.”

And then her lips are on his cheek, so briefly he almost thinks he imagined it. She doesn’t linger, flitting away like the summer breeze while he stares after her, feeling a bit like she’s taken his heart with her.

* * *

It is exactly three o’clock in the afternoon on August 1st and Harry is queueing up in front of the great wedding marquee, wearing another man’s appearance and a very heavy heart. 

Even in his sleep, images he’d crafted of him and Ginny happily dancing at Bill and Fleur’s wedding keep creeping up, haunting him viciously. He doesn’t even know how to dance, a smidge of reality that makes all his pining and moaning after ‘what it could’ve been’ all the more ridiculous.

Fortunately, his angsting and brooding time is quickly cut short when gaggles upon gaggles of guests arrive and Harry jumps to show them to their seats, the twin image of Molly Weasley and Fleur mentally prodding him to move faster and get to it. 

Harry’s in over his head and practically sweating by the time the last guest is comfortably seated and he can finally enjoy some good Weasley humour and a seat of his own. The laughter is bubbling out of their little party as they listen to Fred and George swap family anecdotes, Ron is pleasantly engrossed in Hermione’s presence, and Harry doesn’t feel all that lonely - which, to his mind, is the real success of the day.

Just as he’s beginning to relax, the music plays and in walks Ginny with his soul, heart and mind, glowing like the sun in her golden dress, long red hair cascading down her shoulders in a way that has Harry almost springing from his seat to touch it, caress it, feel its flowery scent. His gut wrenches. 

Old Aunt Muriel comments on the amount of cleavage she’s revealing and Ginny briefly winks at him, which really doesn’t do anything to ease Harry’s situation but rather drops a whole new kind of problem on him than his sad, aching heart. 

Harry subtly shifts in his chair to hide his current situation and simultaneously thanks the heavens for Ron’s smitten expression, blue eyes glued only to Hermione, and parlays with his little buddy to go back, sit down.

“Come on, mate, you’re not invited to this wedding,” Harry grumbles under his breath, willing his eyes to stay away from Ginny and, quite frankly, focus on literally anything else.

But if they were still together and if Voldemort wasn’t a looming threat and if there wasn’t a war tumbling over their lives - if, if, if, then Harry would’ve asked her to dance and he would’ve felt her body press into his and he would’ve whispered into her ear, tell her how incredibly beautiful she looks, what she does to him, how she has bewitched his mind. And maybe, maybe, maybe - ah, maybe later they would’ve stumbled into her room or possibly somewhere at the back of the orchard, hidden by a copse of trees and the darkness of the night, and maybe, maybe, maybe - ah, maybe then they would’ve taken that mind-numbingly brilliant snog further, so much further until all barriers would simply disappear between them, bodies melting into each other until they become one.

“Oh, isn’t it simply beautiful?” Hermione sniffles next to him and Harry jerks out of his daydream.

“Yeah...brilliant,” he sighs and lets his eyes travel over Ginny once more before he rips his gaze away, numbing his mind to drift to a blank space, to complete nothingness until the ceremony is over.

Later, Harry watches her dance with Lee Jordan, unable to not notice the many pairs of eyes staring. The old chest monster roars, enraged.

He’s got no claim over her but somehow - somehow he can’t fight the anger, the utter jealousy that burns out of him whenever someone touches her or ogles her or even talks to her, eyes lingering a second too long on her radiant face. 

He’s got no claim, Harry knows, but it’s only him who’s ever counted all the freckles on her smiling face, it’s only him who’s ever held her, skin touching skin on their misery filled chests, it’s only him who’s ever really loved her.

And there it is: he loves her, of course he does. Of course he does, the miserable sod.

Harry’s one step closer to drowning himself or just getting spectacularly drunk when Viktor Krum, of all people, voices his intentions of charming Ginny and Harry immediately finds Ron’s beheading of his Krum miniature acceptable. Harry himself is ready to behead the real thing actually and he considers it in everyone’s good fortune when Krum quickly gives up.

“Something wrong, Harry?” Bill quirks an eyebrow at him as they bump into each other on the corridor to the men’s room. 

“No, it’s great, brilliant actually,” Harry hurries to chime in with a tad too much enthusiasm to sound natural. Some days he wonders why he even tries, it’s not like he can fool any of those people. They’ve witnessed his awkward teenage phase, goddammit. 

Bill studies him for a heartbeat before he sighs, hand unconsciously flying to arrange his ponytail. “Are you about to drag her into whatever it is that you’re planning?”

Harry’s heart sinks. 

“I’m assuming that’s a no,” Bill grins a bit before his brows furrow once more. “So it’s just my brother, then?”

“Look, I’ve told him and Hermione to stay here -” Harry starts, tone rapidly drifting up into anger, but Bill’s hand is on his shoulder and it’s squeezing him in a sort of calming yet firm way.

“Harry, shush. No one’s blaming you for anything. Just be careful. And Harry?”

Harry’s emerald eyes rise to look into Bill’s stern, scarred face.

“First you win the war, then you come back to her.”

And just like that, Bill turns on his heels to walk right back into his wife’s warm arms while he, Harry, stares after him, all remaining bits of hope cracking in Bill’s wake.

But then everything happens very fast and Harry cannot ponder on Bill’s words, cannot obsess over them, over their meaning. Win the war? Come back to her? Will she be waiting? Why would she be waiting, she has so much life to live. Why? His thoughts revolve around, frantic.

Everything happens very fast. 

Grindelwald.

Dumbledore.

Horcruxes.

Ginny dancing with somebody else.

Ginny watching him over her freckled shoulder, brown eyes sad as they linger on his face.

Ginny wrenching herself out of someone else’s arms, quickly disappearing in the dark.

Harry’s heart breaking.

Kingley’s Patronus.

And the Ministry is falling.

The Ministry is falling.

THE MINISTRY IS FALLING.

Harry grabs Ron and Hermione, alarms ringing deafeningly in his ears. It’s the war, it’s started, it’s really started this time. 

Be safe, be safe, be safe, he whimpers as the three of them spin and spin and spin until they reach the Forest of Dean and nothing else matters anymore. It’s a war and they’re just soldiers and they’re here to fight.

And Harry plans to fight, until his final breath, until his last struggling heartbeat, until he knows that they are safe and Ginny’s safe and the entire world is safe. He steels his resolve and gets to work. There’s so, so very much to be done.

...Nine more months would have to pass before Harry’d finally be able to hold Ginny again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and, like this, our one year journey ends :) we learned, we grew, we angsted over the lack of canon romantic moments in HBP and yet somehow we pulled it off! 
> 
> to all of you who've read our fic, thank you! we really hope this was a ride you could enjoy as well!
> 
> with love,  
gryffindormischief & fightfortherightsofhouseelves


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